Everywhere And Always
by violinhugger
Summary: After a car accident, Sherlock realises his feelings for John. However, his protective side plays up when Moriarty comes back intent to 'burn his heart out'. And the only thing close to his heart is John.
1. Chapter 1

**Ok, this is my first fan fic for anything ever. I need you to be honest, completely. Not cruelly, please, but you know if its crap tell me ****Yes, there will be eventual slash, don't worry. I wouldn't give you an M fic without any steamy scenes. **

**Hope you enjoy xx**

The last thing John H. Watson saw before he blacked out was Mycroft Holmes's head smashing into the seat in front of him. After that it was a blur of pain, a steady beeping, and a warm feeling on his left hand.

John, Mycroft, Anthea and some guy Mycroft hired to be his driver were in a car accident. It wasn't the driver's fault, some idiot crashed into them from behind at over eighty. Seatbelts did nothing to keep them safe. Only the driver got away unscathed. The others ended up in hospital, two of them seriously injured. One dead.

John knew only that he was in a coma. He knew, but he couldn't wake up. He tried to move, but it only led to frustration and pain in his head. He couldn't hear anyone talking, he couldn't open his eyes or blink, but he knew he wasn't dead.

To pass the time, he escaped into his thoughts. Afghanistan, the first time he met Sherlock, and the accident itself. This last one baffled him. He knew it had happened, but he couldn't remember it. All he knew was that his back hurt, a mixture of colours whizzed past his eyes and he blacked out. Again and again he replayed what he remembered, but it never made sense to him.  
>Obviously after a while, boredom got to him. He began making up stories, songs. Anything to keep him going. His personal favourite - although he would never admit it - was one he invented about a case.<br>A jewel thief had broken into The National History Museum, on the same night that an art thief had broken into The Hickman Art Gallery. Lestrade called up on Sherlock, who took to the case like a shark to spilled blood. John helped as much as he could, and whilst John wasn't very good at inventing the deductions, he was more than average at adding the emotional aspects. He made it so that Sherlock could feel, that he felt guilt when a poor pretty girl died, that he hugged John when he complimented him, instead of just saying: "You know you do that out loud." Yes Sherlock. Yes he did.

However, this story was only good. But when he made up his ending - that's when it became his favourite.

John caught the bad guy. He developed his own little deduction technique (eeney meenie miney mo, to be precise. But this is John's fantasy, can't make a judgment here). Sherlock was so proud of him that he kissed him, forcefully, passionately, and without even meaning too, John Watson became bisexual.

"Sorry Sherlock, you know the drill by now. Visiting hours are over. Go home, get some proper rest." Dr. Mike Stamford had been trying to persuade Sherlock to leave Johns bedside for almost half an hour. The steely eyed consulting detective glared at him mercilessly, and for a moment, Mike was too intimidated to do anything.

"Sh-Sherlock, I'll… I'll get in trouble. I have no problem with you being here, but my boss… he'll murder me if I let you stay."

Sherlock looked from the overweight, annoying man to his friend. John looked so small, tiny, wrapped in bandages, covered in wires. It stirred an emotion in Sherlock that he had never felt before over anyone. He didn't know what it was exactly, most sociopaths don't. You and I would describe it as love. Or at this stage, a very strong crush.  
>Without a word to Dr. Stamford, Sherlock stood from the uncomfortable wooden chair and headed out the private room. He had insisted on giving john somewhere private. They would have done it anyway, not that Sherlock cared.<br>Sherlock was becoming accustomed to these cab rides home alone. He let his mind drift back to his first case - a study in pink, John called it. Well, it wasn't his first case. But in his mind it was certainately the most important.  
>Like the cab rides, he too was accustomed to an empty flat. It had been almost two weeks now that John had been in hospital. Two weeks of not eating enough, not sleeping enough, not giving a damn about anything. John would disapprove. But what he didn't know couldn't hurt him. Or, so Sherlock hoped.<br>On a normal night, he would watch crap telly with his friend. John would get annoyed as Sherlock picked apart the plot piece by piece, and they'd end up having an argument, only to be resolved five minutes later over one of John's famous brews.  
>He missed his flat mate. So much. There was nothing to do. No cases, Lestrade wouldn't give him anything to do until John was better - they worked best as a team.<p>

In a way that should make him feel guilty - but didn't - Sherlock missed John more than he missed his brother. The funeral didn't make him cry, seeing his Mummy cry didn't have any effect, he just wished he could be there with John.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's phone rang. He rubbed sleep out of his eyes and answered with a grunt. "Sherlock, it's Harriet. Harriet Watson, John's sister. Um, the hospital told me to contact you, there's something wrong with John."

"What?" Sherlock immediately sat up straighter, then unconsciously gulped.

"They say it's his brain. Internal bleeding, they need to operate."

"I'll be right there."

"No, Sher…" He hung up before her desperate tones could persuade him to do otherwise. He was tired, he'd been up all night, playing with his sudukube. He smelled, he knew that. Taking the quickest shower possible, he changed and headed out. Luckily his hair was almost completely dry by the time he got to Bartes.  
>"Visiting John." He said as he marched past the reception desk. They knew by now, he was there every day all day.<br>He burst into John's room. Johns… empty room. Harry was sat in Sherlock's chair, staring blankly at the bed where John usually lay.

"Where is he?" Sherlock asked loudly,  
>Harry looked up at him, tears in her eyes. "He's…"<p>

Sherlock broke down. It was unexpected, by him and Harry. He collapsed in a heap on the floor, holding his head and wailing. He knew he should stop, knew this wouldn't be what John wanted, knew it but couldn't help it.

"Sherlock, listen. He's not dead."

Sherlock's tears dried up and he cleared his throat. Well, this would be what embarrassment feels like. "Where is he then?" He couldn't get rid of the lump in his throat, and as he stood up, he could feel the water returning to his eyes. He blinked furiously, clearing them as quick as they came.

"He's in surgery. You didn't let me finish on the phone earlier. He woke up earlier, but he was complaining about his head. I only just got here, I would've called to tell you he'd woken up otherwise."

Sherlock nodded and sat on the edge of John's bed, facing Harry. She was pretty, he thought, if he liked girls. She looked so much like John. Her sandy hair was cropped short, she had his warm chocolate eyes, and her lips had a natural turn down at the corners. He couldn't help but smile, apart from her feminine cheekbones and soft face shape, she could have been John.

She saw Sherlock smiling and smirked back self consciously. "What?"

"You look like your brother."

"You think so?" She blinked, "I guess I do. I haven't seen him in a while, because of…" She stopped suddenly, realising she was going to flaunt her secrets to a man she'd hardly heard of.  
>"Because you left your wife and have a drinking problem that John hates, he's tried to talk to you about it too many times to count, but each time you drive him away with fake promises and lies. He likes you, you're his older sister, but you treat him like dirt whenever your around him. He didn't come to you for a flatshare, it wasn't just the drinking that drove him away, oh no, you didn't want him to go to Afghanistan did you? You thought it would be dangerous, and when you found out he got shot you were the first to tell him 'I told you so.' because of this, and your lack of care, John doesn't want anything to do with you anymore. Why are you here?"<p>

Harry was stunned. As are most people. "Piss off."

"Seriously Harry," he said, turning round and leaning in, he slightly elongated her name, making her shudder. "What do you want? How is this coma worse than when he was invalid home?" She said nothing, but this silence was all Sherlock needed.

"Oh, I see." He gasped, "You know it isn't as bad. Your trying to make up for all the times you weren't there for him, and now, because the hospital contacted you, you seize your opportunity to get your brother back. You didn't want him before… so why now?" he smiled, "Your lonely, aren't you? You don't have anyone but the alcohol, and that's not enough anymore is it? You want something else don't you? You want love."

"Who the hell do you think you are? Some kind of stalker?"

"I prefer the term Intense Personal Researcher if you don't mind. However in this case I just happen to be observant."

Silence fell upon the room, Harry didn't deny anything and Sherlock didn't say anything else. He knew he shouldn't have spoken to her like that, but without the cases, he was finding it hard to keep his brain trained. He needed to deduce, John would understand. Although, he wasn't sure about how John would feel now, how he'd feel if he could see the tears in his sisters eyes. Tears put there by Sherlock.

After ten minutes of silence, Sherlock got bored. He left the room, heading down to the café where he hoped he could spend some quality time figuring out which cafeteria staff was having an affair with the chief of medicine. This took him some time, to which he was grateful. But it wasn't nearly long enough.  
>Hours rolled by, two then three, then just before the fourth hour, a doctor came down to the café and called Sherlock. John was out.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

This is where the steady beeping began. Faint at first, then louder. John realised that his hearing was coming back to him, he could hear a man, talking to a women softly. Then someone else joined in the conversation and John's heart leapt.

"Will he need medication?" Sherlock, he was there. John knew it! He would have jumped out of bed, held the taller man until his arms hurt, but he hadn't quite regained feeling yet.

"Some painkillers for a while definitely, but he'll be perfectly fine in a month."  
>John could almost picture Sherlock nodding understandingly. Suddenly he felt warmth spread through his left hand, then his arm heated up, eventually his whole body felt like he had just sunk into a nice bath.<p>

"Johnny?"

He groaned. Out loud. A brief moment of satisfaction, then he realised that the women was in fact his sister. His fingers twitched, he felt something pushing against them, a hand. Very slowly and slightly painfully, he opened his eyes.  
>There was a moment of silence in which a lot of things were revealed. Mike Stamford has been taking care of him. Harry wanted to apologise and talk - brilliant. And Sherlock Holmes was holding his hand.<p>

"Hello." Sherlock's deep, husky voice lingered in John's ears warmly. He had only heard this in his head for the last almost three weeks. It was more perfect than he imagined.  
>"Hi." John croaked. The best he could do due to his unused vocal cords.<br>"Nice to see you John. I'll leave you be, all I'll say now is that your fine. I'll check up on you later, I've left my interns. Haven't been teaching with you in hospital." Mike winked, waved once at Sherlock and left the room.

John and Sherlock stared at each other like long lost lovers. Harry noticed, they weren't exactly being subtle.

"You two together or something?" She scoffed, "You could have told me."

"We aren't together." Said Sherlock quickly, John thought he heard regret in his words.

"You sure seem like it. So I'm a lesbian and Johns a gay. Brilliant, Dad's gonna be chuffed…"

"Harry." John mumbled, "Fuck off."

Sherlock let out a short laugh and Harry stood like a statue, stunned into silence. "Why?"

"I don't want… You here." John had to take a deep breath, his head hurt. A lot. It was hard to breathe through the pain. He blinked a few times and Sherlock frowned. He called a doctor, at some point during these few seconds, Harry left.

"He can't breathe." Sherlock stated.

"Can. It just… hurts." John clutched his forehead and painfully breathed deeply through his nose.

"It's fine, you just need some morphine. If you still feel pain when this wears off, let us know" The doctor quickly injected some morphine into the IV and John instantly sighed in relief. The doctor looked at Sherlock.

"He'll be asleep for a while now, you can go home for a while and I'll call later. Just leave a number at reception." He smiled but Sherlock shook his head.

"I'll wait. I've waited for him my whole life, I won't leave him now."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter Four**_

**Ooh the romance is building… I sense slash soon…**

John woke with a start. The pain was gone, thank god. But so was Sherlock… No. He was sat on an ugly wooden chair, the room was dark though. John could vaguely see Sherlock's face, his eyes were closed. It took John a moment to realise he was asleep. It was a rare sight for him, seeing the defectives chest slowly rise and fall, sighing contentedly in his dreams… It made him smile.

John looked down at his wrist and frowned at the amount of wires coming out. He had a wire up his nose and on his other hand too. It itched, John begged silently for someone to take them out.

Above his head and slightly to the left was a red button. He knew it called the doctors. Granted it was only to be used in emergencies but John wanted to go home. His arm however, wouldn't raise high enough to push it.

With a sigh of regret, he tapped the knee of the detective. Sherlock jerked away with almost a snort. John smiled.

"John." Sherlock breathed.

"Sherlock." In the silence, John almost forgot why he awoken him. "I'm bored of this place. Can we go home now?" He smiled and gestured to the button to let Sherlock know he couldn't reach it.

"Of course."

A doctor rushed in almost immediately, a panicked look on his face. When he saw that nothing was wrong, he went red and took a deep, aggravated breath.

"What is it, Mr Watson?"

"I feel fine, the pains almost gone, I have no risk of an Aneurysm or loss of brain control, my vitals are good and my reflexes work perfectly, the morphine's even taken the ache from my shoulder."The doctor took a glance at his stat's, smiling. "Ah yes, John Watson. Ex army doctor right? Yes, mike's told me all about you. If you say your good to go, I believe you. But I'll call someone in anyway for a second opinion. It's just procedure."

The doctor returned five minutes later with a chubby, balding and more experienced doctor. "Are you sure you feel ok? No pain's or slow reactions?"

"Healthy as a horse."

Eventually, John was allowed to leave. It was almost eight at night by the time he had checked out, been given his medicine and clothes, but finally, him and Sherlock went home.

"You sure your ok John?" Sherlock asked for the seventeenth time (John had counted).

"What do you want me to say, Sherlock? I'm actually dying? My head's just fallen off? I'm. _Fine_."

"Just checking." "Well you don't need to."

They reached the flat and Mrs Hudson burst out her apartment, much quicker than an old lady should have been capable of doing.

"Ooh John, dear, are you ok?"

John bit back his snappy retort, "Yes, thank you."

"Would you like some tea, dear? Biscuits?" Her eyes opened wide like a child's and John smiled warmly.

"No thank you, Mrs Hudson." he was about to walk upstairs with Sherlock but she stopped him and pulled him off to one side. Sherlock took the hint and went ahead with a slight nod.

"I'm glad your back. Sherlock…he hasn't be the same without you. You should hear him, banging about up there. He's been gone most of the time. Hardly said a word to me all this time. Fix him John," She said lovingly, "He's lost without you."

Ignoring John's look of shock, she kissed him on the cheek and went back into her apartment. John headed upstairs, worried about the mess he would find up there. But if Mrs Hudson was right, and Sherlock needed fixing, John knew he would be the one to do it. Because no one was taking Sherlock away from John, ever.

John wanted someone to take Sherlock away from had been a month. A whole bloody month, and Sherlock still wouldn't give John any time alone. I'm not exaggerating, I mean really. John could not do _anything _alone. Whenever he had a shower, Sherlock would sit on the toilet and wait. Whenever John had to pee, Sherlock would face the wall until he had buttoned his jeans. Sherlock had even begun sleeping on John's bedroom floor, just so that he could wake up every hour and check he was still breathing.

They had argued almost every day about it, Sherlock's argument was that he needed to keep John safe, to make sure nothing would ever happen to him again. John had to admit, it was sweet. And he was grateful. But it was getting ridiculous!

He needed his personal space back, just _somewhere _away from his flat mate. But no matter what he said, what he did, how much he hid, Sherlock would always come right back to him. There was no escape. He was obsessed.

Thankfully, cases did a fair bit to stop the obsession in public. Obviously, he wouldn't let John go anywhere alone - heaven forbid - but at least he stood more than a metre away. Sometimes, he would actually stand on the opposite side of a corpse, or the opposite side of a room.

That was the most freedom John got for that whole month. So he decided. Move out. He had tried everything, from trying to give Sherlock new obsessions, to hiding in Mrs Hudson's flat for almost two day's. This was the only thing he could think of.

Yes it would hurt, both of them. But John needed air, he couldn't't cope anymore. He wondered how he had coped so long before this started happening!

"John we need to go shopping." Sherlock grumbled from the fridge.

"Again?" John was sat at the kitchen table, fingering a petri dish that had been out way too long.

Sherlock didn't answer he just grabbed his coat and scarf and threw them on. John watched as the scarf ruffled his silky hair and moved one of the perfect curls out of place. John smiled and went to fix it, at least Sherlock allowed them to touch now, that was definitely a bonus. "You ready?"

"Actually Sherlock, I want to stay here."

Sherlock stopped, stared and laughed. "Don't be an idiot. I'm not leaving you here."

"Your going to have to."

Sherlock frowned. "I won't go then. We can last another few day's." He shrugged off his coat and scarf and flopped onto the sofa, pulling John harshly down next to him.

"Sherlock…"

"No. John. I won't leave you, you know that."

"I'm leaving."

"What?"

John took a deep breath and touched Sherlock's hand briefly, "I have to. I'm moving out."

"Where are we going to go?" Sherlock asked.

"Not _us_. Your not listening." John was getting frustrated, he could feel the need to swear already, but Mrs Hudson was getting angry at the amount of times she'd been telling him to keep the language on the down low.

"You. Your leaving. Leaving _me." _Sherlock looked away and crossed his arms and legs. "Why?"

"I need to get out, Sherlock. I can't… I can't be around you anymore." John instantly felt sorry, but it was too late and he'd made up his mind.

"Aren't you my friend anymore?" Sherlock mumbled, sounding so close to a child it made Johns heart ache. He felt like a bully, leaving the only person he truly cared about. Sure he had Sarah, but he had to be honest. After his dreaming at the hospital, he knew that he and Sarah weren't going anywhere. But she loved him, too much for him to hurt her. "Of course I am. Sherlock, I'll still go on cases with you, we can still have dinner together sometimes, but this… this obsession you have with following me _everywhere, _and it hasn't stopped. And it's not normal, I don't like it."

"I don't make you happy any more do I?" Sherlock looked into Johns eyes, and immediately they captivated each other. They both loved the others eyes, so much. John lost himself in the sparkling silver, he felt a cold shiver go down his spine as Sherlock's gaze once again pierced him. Sherlock felt quite the opposite. He felt warm, looking into Johns eyes gave him his humanity, John kept him sane, safe, and out of too much trouble. He needed John, he was his heart, without him… Sherlock didn't want to go back to what he was. Never again could he feel like that.

"I'll stop." Sherlock said. "I promise. No more."

"I can't believe that. You've said it before." John hated doing this…

"I'm telling the truth this time!" Sherlock begged, "Don't leave me alone. I don't want to be alone again." This wasn't Sherlock… it couldn't't be. Never had he shown so much emotion, so much humanity. It was eerie but at the same time a relief, John knew this time, something had clicked in Sherlock. He actually realised he was doing something wrong and was prepared to change for it to be better.

John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's and Sherlock grinned, his top lip curving happily. "Thank you." he whispered.

"One week. If you do this again, I will leave."

"I know."

Damn! Damn, damn, damn! Why couldn't he be strong? Why couldn't he leave him? What was so special about this sociopath? John was fuming, he should have been able to do it. Should have gotten out while he still could. Deep down, he knew that he was never going to leave anyway, but he wouldn't let that thought come to the foreground of his mind, Sherlock would see and think that John was full of empty threats.

"So… I guess you want me to go shopping?" John asked, breaking the quickly formed awkward silence.

"Yes. Why would I go? I hate shopping."

"You only hate it because you never buy what's on the list." John smiled, happy his friend had returned to his normal, bitter self.

"Ugh, lists are boring. Too strict. Linear. I hate linear."

"You hate everything." John scoffed. Sherlock looked dead at him, smiling seductively. "I don't hate _you._" John got out of there quickly. Seductive smile, how dare he! Sherlock only ever used that smile on unsuspecting suspects, women who he could charm into revealing their part in the crime. Damn him.

The feeling's he felt at the hospital had all but slightly disappeared, and now, he feared they were returning. He found no one else attractive, no males anyway. So why was he feeling like this around Sherlock?


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter five:**_

**SLASH ALERT. I'm going to warn you although this may have seemed tame so far, DON'T BE FOOLED. Do. Not. Read. If. You. Don't. Like. Porn. Did I say porn? Yes I thought so. Good Good. Xx**

John got home in under an hour and dropped the bags. Literally, he dropped them. He heard the milk bottle explode and a cracking noise he supposed were the eggs. His mouth flopped open and he was sure he drooled a little.

Sherlock was standing in the centre of the room, closing his eyes, and playing the most beautiful piece of violin music John had ever heard. It was fast, if the bow and Sherlock's fingers could have moved faster the violin would have exploded. John recognised the piece as'Partita in A minor.' And he loved it. So much. Sherlock's eyes opened and he smiled at John and stopped playing.

"Sherlock… that was amazing."

"You think so?"

"Yes, yes I do, I was incredible." He gulped, "I had no idea you could play like that. I've only heard you when your brother was here. And face it, you weren't very good."

"I was." Sherlock sounded insulted, "I've always been good. In fact, Mycroft was the one who taught me to play. When he was hired onto the British government, he changed. He was jealous, always trying to beat me. I got annoyed so I played badly. Something I now regret." Ah. John regretted mentioning Mycroft. Sherlock had recently started showing some remorse towards his dead brother.

They had been emptying the bags for a few minutes in the kitchen, when they reached into one of them and came up with a handful of egg yolk and mushed whites.

"Lovely." John moaned. Sherlock laughed and they washed their hands. Sherlock's hands touched Johns the whole time, he started to massage John's fingers, ridding them off all the yolk and egg nastiness.

"Sherlock what are you…" He gasped as Sherlock suddenly pulled his fingers out the warm water and placed them in his mouth. Sherlock moaned as his eyes closed. He began massaging John's finger tips with his tongue, John felt his knees go weak.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock dropped Johns hand and smiled, blushing sweetly. "Sorry. I just… I want to please you."

"Where did this come from all of a sudden?" John tried to steady his breathing, but he could still feel Sherlock's breath and tongue on his hand, raising the hairs on his arms and making him shudder.

"All of a sudden? I've wanted you since you got yourself in a coma. Then today… when you said you were leaving me. I knew I would do anything to make you stay."

He stepped closer to John and cupped his face in his hand, John looked at the floor as Sherlock moved his head in slowly, tentatively, gauging John's reaction. When John didn't pull away, he pressed his soft lips onto the tender flesh of John's neck. John closed his eyes and let himself melt into the lean body of the consulting detective. Despite the height difference, they fit together perfectly and Sherlock purred with contentment as John wrapped his arms around his 's lips felt warm and moist against John's throat, they teased the soft skin, nibbling, kissing and licking until John could stand no more and brought their mouths together with an audible smack. John's enthusiasm drove Sherlock mad, he opened John's lips with his tongue and explored John's mouth. Only when breathing became difficult did John brake free and step out of the tight embrace. He was panting heavily, and painfully aware of the erection pushing against his too tight jeans. Sherlock bit his lip as his gaze was drawn to John's look in Sherlocks eyes, the stone cold silver had glazed over with lust, they sparkled and shone, brighter than they ever had been. John wondered if his own looked the same. He hoped so, because it was turning him on just to look at Sherlock's face. With a quick glance to the sofa, and a crooked smile, Sherlock led John by the hand into the living room, where he gently threw John onto the sofa and lifted his jumper over his head. Sherlock knelt down in front of John and hurriedly unbuttoned John's shirt. He pressed his lips into John's navel and John chuckled, Sherlock stopped in his path and looked into the hazel eyes of the doctor."Sorry," he coughed, "I think I'm ticklish."Sherlock grinned wickedly and held John's hips to keep him still, then John, sensing what Sherlock was about to do, yelled loudly and began squirming. Sherlock kissed and licked John's ribs until John was blue in the face and laughing into his fists."Sherlock…" he gasped, "Stop… Tickling… Me!"Sherlock's deep throated chuckle vibrated through John's stomach but he did relent. He let John's breathing calm, let him think that the worst was over. And when his eyes closed, Sherlock re applied his lips to his chest, just gently. He moved slowly but swiftly towards John's hard on. He had unbuttoned his jeans and threw them across the room before John's moan had left his lips.

John's erection was clear in all its glory through the flimsy material of his grey boxers. Sherlock's mouth began to water and John panted in anticipation. Instead of ripping off John's boxers and taking his cock into his mouth like he knew he should, Sherlock wanted to tease. He smirked to himself as he bent slightly and licked John through his boxers. John hissed air through his teeth and a blush deepened across his cheeks and up to the tips of his ears. It was a delicious sight for Sherlock. And John's smell! God, it was so… So perfect. He had a caramelised smell, like cinnamon apples at Christmas. That, mixed in with the sweaty, heady scent of precome and a man aroused sent Sherlock into a dizzying frenzy.

When he could stand it no longer, he licked his lips and bit at the waistband of John's boxers. He used his teeth to drag them down, his nose skimmed over John's shaft and he inhaled greedily. He had never done this to John before; he didn't know where he liked it. He doubted John knew himself. He didn't seem like he'd had many experienced sexual partners before. Sherlock was determined to enjoy himself, but his mind wouldn't let him rest until he had figured John out completely. He _needed _to experiment before he let John come. Sherlock nipped at the base of John's cock, feeling the pulse race against his tongue and teeth, John moaned above him and fisted his hands in Sherlocks hair, panting his name. Ok, so John liked that. A lot. Sherlock made a mental note and licked up his whole long pole, twirling his tongue around the swollen glands just under his head. He took John's leaking crown into his mouth and sucked at the salty liquid already starting to seep out.

"God, Sherlock…" John's voice, quiet but strained, urging him on. But Sherlock wasn't to be hurried; he lowered his mouth onto him. Taking him all in. John pulled on Sherlock's head, wishing him faster. But Sherlock took it slow, letting his tongue drag across and around his foreskin, pursing his lips and moaning to turn John on further. He was close, Sherlock knew that. His hips were humping Sherlock's face, but Sherlock wanted it, liked it. His own erection was becoming painful, straining against his trousers. He refused to touch it, it would cloud his mind further. Already, he had noted all of John's overly sensitive spots and was now bringing him closer and closer to the edge.

Sherlock's tongue flicked out like a snake, first delving into John's pubic hair so Sherlock could smell John's arousal, then running it expertly up his shaft so he could slip it slightly into Johns slit.

John moaned louder, hardly breathing at all. It was time, Sherlock took John once again in his mouth and deep throated John, head moving, tongue licking, adding just the slightest amount of teeth at the base and head and…

"Sherlock… Yesss! God!" John yelled out this and many more inchorent phrases as he came. Sherlock swallowed what he could, but lifted his head so John could watch him lick the remaining come from the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock waited for John to come down from his climax and sat patiently, now unable to ignore the bulge in his pants.

"How many times have you done that?" John asked, eyes still closed in pleasure.

Sherlock shrugged, "Never."

John - now completely sober - sat bolt upright, mouth wide open, eyes still shining like a star. "But… _Really?"_

Sherlock nodded, "I trust you enjoyed yourself…" he frowned, worried that he had in fact got all the wrong places.

"Yes, of course." Dazed and shocked, he shook his head and laughed. "That was amazing, Sherlock. Really." He pulled Sherlocks head close to his so he could taste himself on Sherlock's tongue. His hand slipped down to massage Sherlocks crotch, who moaned gratefully.

"I'm yours now John. Everywhere and always."

**That was my first attempt at Slash! Considering that… personally I thought It was pretty good ****J**** xx Anyway, next chapter; (I'm going to give previews now. It helps me know what I have to write about as well as give you spoilers) Sherlock finds out who crashed into Mycroft's car, what happened at the pool is revealed, and something **_**very**_** interesting happens in the shower… xx**


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Six; _

**Ok so I accidentally lied. I said they would shag in the shower. Maybe not as bluntly as that but that's what I meant ;) anyway I was a bit of a idiot and forgot to change that A/N before uploading it. So instead of changing it I'm just gonna say here; this is not the chapter they have shower fun in. I was mistaken and I apologize ****xx**

"Tea?" John yelled from the kitchen.

"Mm." Sherlock grunted vaguely in response. John came out five minutes later holding a stripy steaming mug. "Thank you."

John smiled in welcome and sat next to his lover on the sofa, head resting on his shoulder. "What _are _you watching?"  
>Sherlock had his legs curled up under him, chin resting on his hand and watching TV. Without complaining. There was nothing that Sherlock could watch without picking apart the plot. So John kept hiding the remote, in the hope that when Sherlock was asleep he could catch the newest Merlin repeat.<br>"Jeremy Kyle."

"You hate Jeremy Kyle." John said, kissing Sherlocks neck briefly before standing up and switching off the TV.

"True as that is, John," He said, stretching like a cat. "I don't have any cases on. I'm bored."

"Well at least the wall isn't taking a beating." John sighed, heading into the kitchen to find some biscuits to dunk in his tea. Ignoring the severed fingers in an empty jammy dodger box, he pushed through the cupboards until he pulled out some digestives. Long thin arms encircled his waist and black silky hair tickled his ear as Sherlocks lips sealed themselves onto his cheek. He rocked them back and forwards gently. John sighed contentedly.  
>"Dammit!" John moaned as Sherlocks phone started buzzing from his pocket. Sherlock quickly answered with a "Sherlock Holmes." And his face lit up, "We'll be right there!" He hung up and disappeared into his bedroom, coming out a moment later hopping whilst trying to put his shoes on.<p>

"Lestrade?" John asked, reaching for Sherlocks coat and scarf. Sherlock nodded.

"They know who crashed into Mycroft's car. They've caught him!" As John followed Sherlock down the stairs, he found himself glad that they had stopped kissing. Sherlock - although he may not have shown it - was saddened over the loss of Mycroft. It had taken him a while. At first, he was his usual sociopathic self. But after getting closer to John, he started to feel more. Including sadness. The fact they had caught Mycroft's killer was making Sherlock really very happy. His cold eyes lit like a bulb, turning the icy grey electric. His full pink lips stayed upturned throughout the whole cab ride to Scotland Yard.

Lestrade was waiting for them at the entrance to New Scotland Yard with a grave look on his face. He stood like a statue, silent and imposing. Arms crossed in front of his chest, he stared at them without saying a word until they approached three feet of him.

"It was Moriarty." No emotion, nothing to express how he felt. But the look on Sherlock's face was of pure torment and revenge.

"Sorry, Sherlock. We can't find him." Lestrade beckoned him through the spinning doors and Sherlock walked behind Lestrade and John, escaping into the fortress that surrounded his heart. John's health left him and suddenly he felt sick to the core. If Sherlock was retreating - which he was - then that meant that John had no chance of a relationship, as far as Sherlock was concerned, John meant nothing to him. Not now, not after what Moriarty did to him…

FLASHBACK;

"_And I presume my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock held the L9A1_ _at arms length and slowly pointed it down from Moriarty and pointed It at the bomb that now lay at his feet. Moriarty smiled coyly as John stood from the cold and slightly wet tile floor and stood at the side of Sherlock, his arm slightly touching Sherlock's elbow. With a quick look at John, he closed his eyes and shot blindly. _

_The moment John saw Sherlock's finger touch the trigger, with lightning quick reflexes, he pushed Sherlock roughly into the cold water beneath them._

_Icy chill stabbed into them both like knives, making their breath rush out of them in bubbles. Debris crashed into the water from above, a tidal wave caused by the explosion. John felt dizzy and began gasping, he knew he would drown if he continued like this, he could already feel the pressure building painfully in his lungs. A black curtain obscured his vision, he reached out and chanced to grab Sherlock's arm. Spluttering heavily, he broke through the surface and was rewarded by a blast of freezing air and a small chip from the ceiling cutting across his cheek.  
>As the last of the ceiling crumbled around him, John hauled an unconscious and bruised Sherlock out of the water. He was heavy, his clothes leaden with water, his limp figure - whilst lanky - proving difficult to manoeuvre into a clear space.<br>John was shivering violently, he knew he would get sick if he didn't get help. But he couldn't leave Sherlock alone, and he couldn't carry him to hospital.  
>Bruises were already starting to form on the detectives pale face, his white shirt - now see through - was showing a large gash dripping with blood. A piece of debris had sliced through Sherlocks ribs. Panicking, John ran a hand through his soaking hair. He knew he would regret doing this later, but Sherlock needed him to be Army Doctor John H. Watson.<br>Taking a deep breath, John fastened his mouth around Sherlocks and blew in slowly. He pushed down on his chest with entwined hands eight times before repeating.  
>Sherlock awoke in hospital, coughing wheezing. John was there, which was good. So was Mycroft and his parents. Ugh, his parents. Why they cared he didn't know.<br>Lestrade was also there, and whilst they didn't know each other well, Lestrade knew Sherlock well enough to know he would want to hear what happened to Moriarty.  
>As far as the police could tell, he had survived. They didn't find a body, but they didn't have any eye witness accounts of him running away either. Lestrade also told him that the bomb Sherlock had shot hadn't been a bomb at all. It was a distraction from the real bomb, attached to the ceiling. More approximately, semtex strapped to one half of the ceiling. It all crumbled, but started on the side Sherlock was on, which would give Moriarty exactly three point two seconds to leave through the door precisely two metres to his left.<br>_END OF FLASHBACK:

And now he was back, Moriarty, alive and unhappy. Two things about Moriarty that when combined, led to intricate cases and Bruce Partington Plans.  
>They sat in Lestrade's office, John tapping restlessly on his knee whilst Sherlock talked energetically to Lestrade.<br>"He can't want revenge, the only thing we did to anger him was to live, and he didn't want us to die then, he said so himself. So why would he come after us now… most likely because we haven't given him ample chance. The probability is he didn't want to come after me directly, I think his words were; "I will burn the heart out of you." Obviously he was going to come after the people I cared about, and they hadn't been in the perfect place to strike until the point they were in the car together. He probably knows John's alive and will come after him next I'm afraid, we need to keep him under constant surveillance at all times, which was what I _was_ doing until he told me he'd leave should I continue my actions." He stroked his chin thoughtfully.  
>"So you mean to tell me that you knew that Moriarty was after me? That's why you wouldn't leave me alone?" John gasped.<br>Sherlock nodded, "I suspected he was still alive, and should he have been he would come after you. I had to make sure he didn't find you." His eyes - back to steel - searched John's face, as John's warm hazel ones searched his. John couldn't help but feel touched.  
>He knew that Sherlock was - for lack of a better word - stalking him all the time to make sure he was safe. But he thought it was to keep him from injuring himself in accident's, like hurting himself with a kitchen knife, or slipping in the bathroom. He had no idea that there was some much bigger picture to it, that his life was genuinely in mortal danger. And he'd said he would leave! What an idiot he was… he should have <em>known. <em>He should know Sherlock by now. How it didn't occur to him that Sherlock cared for him like that was a mystery. But that meant…  
>"Sherlock can I talk to you outside for a moment?" John asked, interrupting Lestrade's less important sentence. He stood up but knew that Sherlock would follow.<br>They left Lestrade's office and Sherlock slowed down, only to find that John was walking rather quickly into an unused corridor. Sherlock raised his brow but followed none the less.  
>Once they got there, Sherlock noticed that John had his fists clenched around the wrists of his jumper. "John what's wrong?"<br>"You mean you can't deduce it? Like you do everything else?"  
>"Your harder to deduce than others." He shrugged but looked unhappy.<br>John shook his head, "No, I'm easier. Much easier. When I told you I would leave, and you kissed me in the kitchen, you said you would do anything to make me stay. You knew I wanted you, you deduced it. You only did those things to me to beat Moriarty in his own fucking game."  
>Sherlock actually took a step back in shock, John smirked cruelly. "See? I can even outsmart you sometimes Sherlock. But now I know, you don't even care that you hurt me, do you?"<br>"John…"

"No, you utter _bastard_! I won't listen anymore! You find my weaknesses and use them against me! "

"John please…"

"Stop it! Just fucking stop it! I won't say another word to you, you'll only…" John was cut off by Sherlock's lips, suddenly fast and furious against his own. "Sherlock," John tried to say against his mouth, but Sherlock had slipped his tongue through John's teeth, and It felt too damn good for John to care he was meant to be mad. But as Sherlock backed John against the wall, John's sensible head kicked in and he pushed Sherlock away and wiped his lips.

"Don't do this." He begged, "Don't lead me on just to get to Moriarty."

"I can't believe you." Sherlock hissed, "Do you really know me that little? I thought you knew _me, _John. No one know's me, but you do! Don't you know that I care about you? Yes, at first, I was only going to kiss you because I knew it would make you stay. But when you looked at me with those eyes…" he shuddered at the delicious memory, making John's toes curl, "I knew I would do anything for you. At that moment, I felt the love you felt for me. And I wanted more. I'll never let you go John. Everywhere and always, remember?" He reached out to hold Johns warm and red cheek in his cool palm, sighing when John leaned into it automatically.

"So, you _do _care for me?"

Sherlock chuckled his deep throated laugh and kissed John sweetly on the nose. "I always have."

John reached up to entwine his hands in Sherlocks inky black curls and brought their lips together. They moved against each other slowly, Sherlocks hands around John's waist, rocking him against him gently. It felt good, really good, and John made a high moan that sounded like a whine. Sherlock broke away and kissed his forehead.

"We should save this for another time."

"I don't want to lose you…" John whispered against his chest.

"What are on about John? You know you won't."  
>"Yes I will, you'll get all wrapped up in this case, like you always do. And I won't get you back, you'll be… well, you'll be a sociopath again. I'll miss you." John lifted Sherlocks hand and nibbled at his fingertips until Sherlock drew in breath through his teeth.<p>

"I won't, because now I know what love feels like, and nothing will stop me losing it."

**Naw… Look at them being all cutesy… Love it x Next Chapter: Sherlock FEELS SAD. Gasp. Anthea makes a surprise guest appearance and they. Have. Sex. In. The. Shower. Really this time. Won't let you all down again ;) xx I'd love to dedicate this chapter to thisisforyou, who dedicated one to me, and who helped me majorly with figuring out the beta reader situation i was having... thank you!**


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter Seven:**_

After sneaking another quick kiss, they headed back to Lestrade's office. He was aping impatiently on the desk.

"Welcome back. Next time you want to talk to him John, talk to him here." Lestrade frowned.

John blushed and looked down, "Sorry. But my words weren't for your ears."

Lestrade raised a brow curiously but pushed the case no further. He clapped his hands and picked up a closed file, he let it hover just out of Sherlock's reach.

"Before you open it, I must warn you, there's pictures of your brother in there." Lestrade passed him the file and Sherlock flicked through it once very briefly before taking a closer look. John sat on the arm of the chair Sherlock always sat on and hooked an arm around Sherlocks broad shoulders for comfort. Sherlock took a deep breath and stared at the first picture.

The car from the front looked fine. Sleek, black, shiny. Well, It _would _look fine, but the right corner had been completely torn off when it had crashed into the car in front. John shuddered violently, remembering what It was like in the crash. Smoke came from the back of the car and floated over the top like a rain cloud. John could see the driver, slumped over in the drivers seat. He knew he was fine now, but when they crashed, there was blood all over his head. John could see it, red and clear. The next picture was of the back of the car, John winced and Sherlock lifted his hand to his lips to kiss him and calm him. Lestrade looked back and forth between them before realising that it had to happen sooner or later.

The car was ruined, completely. Not surprising since it had been in fact Moriarty that had crashed into them. He would have tried extremely hard to make sure no one lived. Luckily for John, Anthea and the driver, only Mycroft died. Unfortunately for Sherlock, Mycroft died. The boot had crumpled in on itself and was aflame, black metal melded into grey, glass was broken all over the road and car. John, Mycroft and Anthea were visible from the angle the picture was taken at. John knew he was already slipping into a coma, Anthea was conscious, her hand stuck out the window waving to the fire service for help, but Mycroft… John hoped he was dead. He looked mangled, broken, at least John hadn't suffered.

The next few pictures bored Sherlock, they were just the fire brigade and ambulance service cutting away the doors. He stopped to look at John being carried away on a stretcher, but continued without letting too much emotion show. However, when a picture of Mycroft flashed up without warning, Sherlock's breath caught in his throat and he found it suddenly hard to breath. Pressure built up behind his eyes and he rubbed at them. He threw the file onto the table and leaned into John.

Even John was shocked at the picture. Mycroft was covered in blood, his whole face. Both eyes were closed, thank god, but his mouth was open, blood poured out and his nose was broken and crooked. Cuts and deep gashes littered his cheeks. His clothes were torn where the fire brigade had tried to cut him free. There was a resuscitation kit next to him, unpacked and packed again. Obviously a failed one. He had died being rescued. "Sherlock." Lestrade said, gripping his arm tightly, "Go home. Your not ready yet."

Sherlock stood up without letting go off John's hand, "Send me the file? And whatever else I'll need. I'll find him, Gregg. I'll get him." His voice was feral, rough and angry, for a moment John felt sympathy for Moriarty, but realised that whatever punishment Sherlock dealt upon him was truly deserved. Honestly, John wouldn't care if Sherlock killed him. He wouldn't get arrested for it, Lestrade had covered for him before, he would again. The taxi ride home was the quietest it had ever been. Sherlock was trying hard to keep his emotions deep inside, but something about him was making it impossible. He had now witnessed his brothers death, maybe not as close up as John, but it was harder for him than it would be for anyone moment they got to the flat, Sherlock rushed upstairs and John heard a door slam. Luckily there were two doors into the apartment. John walked up and paused before entering. He could hear sobbing, not just quiet 'I bumped my head' sobs, great, wrenching sobs that tore at his heart. And he knew who was making them.

"Sherlock? Where are you?" John asked as he walked in, slipping off his jacket and shoes. Sherlocks coat and scarf had been thrown on the floor in the kitchen, John walked down the tiny corridor by the fridge and pushed open the door to Sherlock's bedroom. His heart leapt into his mouth and tears sprang to his eyes at the noise and sight of his lover, his life partner, curled into a ball, weeping uncontrollably into his hands. John dived onto him, pushed him against the headboard and held him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and cried into his shoulder for ages. It was like nothing John had seen before. He had fought in the war, watched man after man get shot down in front of him, been strapped to a (fake) bomb, fallen in love. But nothing compared to witnessing this, this perfect yet flawed man who was strong in every way, break down in his arms.

They both cried, John cried for Sherlock, Sherlock cried for himself and Mycroft.

"I… I never said thank you to him." Sherlock sobbed after he had calmed down a little.

"For what baby?" John _never_ called him baby, but as soon as the word left his mouth he knew it was the right thing to say, Sherlock smiled and kissed John's shoulder. John sat up a little, but let Sherlock keep hold of both his hands.

"For teaching me the violin." He smiled, which made John smile. John pulled up at the corner of the duvet and wiped at Sherlocks stained cheeks. "And for putting up with me."

"You had to put up with him too. Remember the Christmas dinners?" This made them both laugh and Sherlock sniffed and rubbed his face.

"I haven't cried since I was twelve."

"What made you cry then?""I watched E.T for the first time."

"How are you feeling today?" John asked as he walked in to give Sherlock his usual tea and toast in bed.

"Good, thank you." He took a swig of warm tea and sighed, "At least I'm not crying anymore." He offered John a bit of toast sat up, he was wearing nothing but his boxers, John's pulse started racing as he watched Sherlock's jaw and neck muscles work. He could watch that all day…

"I'm going for a shower, anything else you need?" John stood up and slugged off his heavy robe, leaving him in just his boxers. They were both matched now. Sherlock shook his head and went back to eating. He didn't even look at John's half naked form. John scoffed once he was out of ear shot. "Probably wanking over me now…"

John turned on the shower to very hot, his shoulder was being particularly ache-y this morning. He stepped under the spray with an audible moan then pressed his hot forehead to the cool tile. Closing his eyes, he let the water work wonders on his shoulder. So engrossed was he in the healing powers of shower water, he didn't hear the bathroom door open and close, and he didn't notice Sherlock climbing in behind him. That is, until strong arms wrapped around him and a rather long erection dug into his back.

"Sherlock what are you…" He was cut off as he was span around and shoved against the wall. Sherlocks hand quickly found John's erection and his skilled fingers worked their magic immediately. It wasn't long before John was calling out his name, begging him to stop.

"You don't really want me to though, do… Hnng, John," John's hand had found Sherlock's cock, and was very slowly running his wet hands up and down his shaft.

"No, I don't. I want more." John groaned into his ear. "Fuck me, Sherlock. Please."

Sherlock groaned and span John around so his stomach was pressed into the wall, John winced as Sherlock stuck a finger inside him. "Sorry John, I don't want to hurt you."

"I know, I know. Just… More, please." John rocked his hips back onto Sherlocks finger, so he stuck a second one in and scissored, making John groan in pain. Sherlock fought the urge to apologise again, and instead took his fingers out and braced himself against John's entrance.

"No, wait." John said, "I want to see you." He turned around and lifted his legs up and wrapped them tight around Sherlocks skinny waist. He could feel Sherlock, throbbing and hard at his entrance. He was scared, he knew it would hurt and dreaded the pain, but his body was begging for it, he could feel himself aching for Sherlock inside him, it was almost too much for him to bear. His own cock, leaking precome onto Sherlocks stomach, felt like it was on fire, the water acting as an amazing turn on for him. "You ready?" Sherlock asked, already slightly thrusting into him.

John nodded and gripped tightly onto Sherlocks shoulders. Sherlock pushed into him hard and fast, with a groan so loud John momentarily feared mrs Hudson would walk in. But then that fear was eradicated and pain took over, a tear slipped from his eye, he burned, Sherlock was too big, too wide, it stretched him so much… "God, Sherlock," He bit his lip and almost asked him to take it out, but then he felt something else. He jerked, opening his mouth wide as he yelped, "Yes. Oh god yessss Sh…Sherlock-" Sherlock drove in him, harder and deeper than before, feeling the pressure build up inside him, he moaned John's name and uttered noise that was close to being imhuman. "John, your so tight…"

"Sherlock! HARDER!" John yelled, "Yes! Yes! Right there!" He thrust down hard on Sherlock, as Sherlock hit his prostate again and again, sending the most perfect waves of pleasure all through him, Sherlock pushed hard against him and squeezed John's cock, massaging the head quickly and smoothly until John's red faced opened in a scream of; "OH FUCK!" As he came on Sherlocks stomach, his head hit the tiles as water and come flowed down the drain, Sherlock yelled out John's name a second later and leaned his head against John's neck and bit down to keep him from yelling out louder as he spilled his seed inside John.

John dropped his legs as Sherlock pulled out of him, both men were breathing heavily, and John had to sit on the floor of the shower so his knees wouldn't buckle. He knew walking was beyond him for a few minutes.

"Sherlock?" John looked up at his boyfriend, who was leaning on the wall, panting hard and staring at the ceiling.

"Yes, sweetheart?" He winked down at John who smiled back and winced.

"My arse hurts."

"Do you think Mrs Hudson heard us?" John asked later as they were cuddled on the sofa together, flicking through old case files. "We weren't exactly quiet."

"I should think she did. I don't think she minded much." Sherlock licked his finger tip and turned the page before John had even read half.

"Don't you think we should ask?"

"And say what?" Sherlock said, grinning gently, "Sorry to interrupt Mrs Hudson, but do you mind if me and Sherlock have loud gay sex in the shower every morning?"

John laughed and Sherlock kissed him softly, stroking his cheek. "I love your laugh." Sherlock cooed, kissing his cheeks, nose and eyes sweetly. John sighed and let Sherlock feel him, learn the curves and features of his face with his lips. With a final kiss on the tip of John's nose, Sherlock chuckled and went back to the file. He was waiting for Lestrade to post the new case. John worried that once he had it, Sherlock wouldn't rest until his brother's death was avenged. Sherlock wasn't one for revenge, John thought as he stared lovingly at his boyfriend, but this really seemed like it would go on and on until something was done to stop Moriarty. John feared for his own safety considerably less than he should. He didn't care what happened to him, but he was terrified that something bad would happen to Sherlock if he went after Moriarty. He bit his lip when the front door was knocked. Sherlock stayed where he was, but John got up to answer it. He ran/walked down the stairs but Mrs Hudson got there first.

"Oh, hello dear. Are you here for Sherlock?" She took a quick look and John and blushed, "I think he's a little busy right now…"

John refused to laugh, "No, he's not. Have you got the files?"

Lestrade nodded, stepping out of the cold London afternoon holding a briefcase. "Everything's in here, I doubt he'll need my help, but would you like me to come up and run through them anyway?"

"No thank you," John said politely, "I think this is something he wants to do alone."

Lestrade sighed and shook his head, "This is the last one." he muttered.

John frowned, "Last what?"

"Case." Lestrade said regretfully, "That Sherlock will be doing anyway."

John stared open mouthed, disbelieving what he had heard, "You can't be serious."

"I am. I'm sorry, but it's not me that wants him gone. Scotland Yard say he's too involved now. Since he has personal connections to this case he's allowed to finish it. But after that," he made a mock slash across his throat and shrugged, "I'm sorry John. Truly, I am. They say he's just a civilian, he doesn't even have a job."

"His job's with you!" John said, trying to keep his voice quiet enough that Sherlock wouldn't hear, "The worlds only consulting detective! Without him, ninety percent of the cases you put him on would still be unsolved."

"I know! As I said, it's not me that makes these decisions. I tried, John. Really I did. I want him to go just as little as you."

"I bet Anderson's chuffed." John mumbled.

"I haven't told him. He may need to help Sherlock on this case. No one but me knows yet. They'll know when this is over." He nodded once in respect and left, he left the briefcase leaning against the wall and John, still mind blown and not quite understanding, picked it up and headed upstairs.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, looking up politely.

John nodded and threw the briefcase onto the sofa next to Sherlock's feet. Now he wished Lestrade had come up with him, John didn't want to tell him. "Sherlock I need to tell you something." He sat next to Sherlock, who looked at him with an almost comical expression, "It's not something I want to tell you, but…" He took a second to think about how he would say it, then it came to him. He wouldn't. If he told Sherlock now, then he wouldn't be concentrating fully on this case. He needed a clear head, especially with something this serious. "We need to talk to Sarah. About us. She needs to know." He mentally high fived himself and watched Sherlock's expression change from anxious to smug.

"Yes, I suppose we should. That'll be interesting." He smiled at John and peeled open the briefcase. Luckily, he couldn't read the 'he fell for that' look in John's eyes.

**You can't believe how upset I was, firing Sherlock. It hurt me. However I need that to happen, I just won't tell you why. Next Chapter: It's all about the ladies! Molly get's involved in the case, Anthea makes a surprise appearance and Sarah walks in on something she really shouldn't have… xx**

**I know, I just dedicated my last chapter to someone. However, this one goes to my good friend Mrs Holmes/Watson, I get all the best fic's from her and she's given me an amazing idea for my next fic. Thanks for your help! xx**


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter Eight:_

All things considered, Sherlock was taking this case really well. At first, looking through the pictures did bring him to tears, but John was there, holding onto him during every moment of weakness.

After an hour, Sherlock's mind was back in deducing mode, something John was not too happy about. Despite Sherlock's claims, and the romantic message; 'everywhere and always' that had been replaying through his head, John was still convinced that Sherlock would feel nothing for the good doctor whilst on the case. It was making his hand shake and his leg twitch.

"How am I meant to find him John? I had to bait him to the pool last time, and then I had something to bargain with." Sherlock threw the file onto the table and leaned his head in his hands, ruffling the curls.

John shrugged and rested his head on Sherlock's broad shoulders. To his surprise Sherlock didn't turn away, instead he sat straight and pulled John's head onto his lap and began stroking his hair.

"I don't even know where to begin to look."

"The pool?" John suggested, closing his eyes and purring contentedly as Sherlock's long fingers twisted his roots gently.

Sherlock sighed, "No, it's completely destroyed. They're re-building it as we speak."

The couple lapsed into a comfortable silence, the only sound was Sherlock's fingers as he flicked through the file again and again, trying to find anything to tell him where Moriarty was and what he was doing.

"Sherlock, has it occurred to you -"

"Probably."

"No, has it occurred to you that he's going to do everything again? The small cases that lead to a confrontation in which you get almost killed?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No it hasn't. Because he doesn't want me dead. He wants you, John. He wants to hurt everyone I hold dear to me, and you're the only person left I care about."

John blushed and sniffed, complimented but not calmed. John blinked as a neat idea popped into his head, "Why not…" He gulped and shook his head, laughing at his own stupidness.

"Why not what?"

"Nothing. Don't worry." John bit his lip, hoping Sherlock wouldn't press the subject. Of course, he did.

"Tell me." He growled, running his finger overs John's slightly pouty bottom lip. John's eyelids fluttered and he nipped Sherlock's fingertip. Sherlock chuckled and pulled John up. "What was it?"

John felt for stubble on his chin and scratched his neck, biding for time. "Well, why not - since he wants me-"

"No."

"You didn't let me finish.""No, John. I know you, false sense of heroics and all that. But you are not, under any circumstances, offering yourself as bait." Sherlock's eyes deepened in colour as they bore angrily into John's slightly offended but still bold hazel ones.

"You won't find him otherwise."

"Exactly, he knows you'd do that. If you were dead, he could come straight for me and kill me. Should you be alive - which you obviously are - he will wait until you put yourself into that situation."

"But he doesn't know if I'm dead or not!" John argued, "We need to use me, it's the only way to avenge your brother!"

"I don't want to avenge my brother! I want to keep you safe!"

John scoffed, "When has my safety ever been a problem? It's dangerous being with you, but I am."

Sherlock stood from the sofa and placed his hands on his hips and glared at John. "This is different. You know it is. And you're not going to do it."

He plucked his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. He walked into the kitchen and slid the ugly stained glass door shut so John knew not to interrupt. Angry and ignored, John stormed out of the house, not even thinking for his own safety. In the back of his mind he knew it was stupid leaving the house without Sherlock, but he needed air. It took him two minutes to hail a cab, he didn't realize where he was going until he climbed in and told the cabbie Sarah's address. Another bad idea. She'd want to know why he hadn't called her, why they hadn't gone on another date. And he'd have to tell her.

"_By the way, Sarah, I'm gay and fucking Sherlock."_

"_Oh that's nice, everyone always thought you should get together."_

"_Mm put the kettle on would you?"_

John smiled to himself; she obviously wouldn't take it quite so easily. Those who knew Sarah knew she had a temper; after all, she had hit a Chinese ninja around the head on their first date.

The cabbie pulled up to her house and John threw a twenty in his lap. He knocked the door and waited, she opened with a huge smile, dirty blonde hair pulled up messily into a bun. "John," her breathy voice greeted, "Come in, I'm just about to make a coffee."

John nodded and stepped into her simple but good looking house.

"Where have you been hiding then? Too busy with a case to call me?"

"Coma."

Sarah froze in her path to the kitchen and stared, "Joking?"

John shook his head, "I was hit by a car. I'm surprised you didn't know, Sherlock didn't call?"

Sarah shook her head and sat next to him on the sofa, "No. he didn't."

"Figures." John muttered. He explained everything that had happened to her, he left out the part of being Moriarty's next target so as not to worry her, but he told her everything else.

"And um, Sarah, I'm sorry but there's something else."

"Okay… and I'm sorry about Sherlock being fired, what'll he do now? What will you do now?"

"Well I'll still work at the surgery but listen," he took her hand and sighed, "Sarah I'm… I'm leaving you."

Her eyes widened and glazed over, "Why?" She cleared her throat and let go of his hand, "What did I do?"

"No, it wasn't you. Really, I just- I like someone else now."

Sarah scanned his face and gasped, "You're with him aren't you? Sherlock?"

John nodded and Sarah almost smiled. "I can't say I'm surprised. Little hurt, obviously, but I knew he liked you. At least you weren't leaving me for some twenty year old bimbo like Debbie from the surgery." Her teary smiled made him happy. She'd be ok. She was strong, she didn't hate him for what he did. After a final cup of coffee and a last kiss, John walked out of Sarah's warm, cozy house and made his way back to his cold, yet still cozy lover.

Sherlock was sat on his favorite chair, legs pulled underneath him. He had John's laptop in his lap and was typing furiously. He looked up briefly. "Sarah took it better than expected."

"I'm not going to ask." John settled into the armchair opposite Sherlock's and sighed. "She's fine with it. A bit broken, but time will fix that."

Sherlock continued typing.

"About earlier… I'm sorry, Sherlock. I am."

"I know."

"And I was wondering, did you give it any more thought?" His tongue snaked out and ran over his lips - a nervous habit. He twiddled his thumbs and Sherlock none too lightly closed the laptop.

"Yes. And the answer is still no. I can't believe you still want to discuss that." Sherlock's stony eyes seemed solid, the warmth that had lived there ever since they got together had vanished, leaving the cold sociopath behind. John forced himself to stay calm, Sherlock said he wouldn't lose him. John was going to trust him until all else seemed lost.

"There isn't another way. You're a genius, you'd know if there was."

"John. Not again." He leant forwards, shirt button's straining against his perfect chest, John could feel the muscles now, Sherlock lying on top of him, pressing into him… No. Not the time. "You know what I'll say."

John nodded, hoping he faced away before Sherlock noticed the blush spreading across his cheeks.

"And you're right."

"About what?""I _am _a genius. And I did think of something. Maybe not something that will lead us directly to Moriarty, but certainly something that'll help." He stood up and walked into the kitchen. Without being told, John followed. Sherlock was texting rapidly.

"Who's that?" John asked.

"Anthea."

"An-Anthea? How will she help?" John hadn't seen or heard from Anthea since the accident. He only knew she was alive when they were flicking through the case file.

"She was there too John. She might know _something._"

"That's a big might." John mumbled. But he sat down and let Sherlock text.

It took two days. Anthea replied almost immediately, but when John opened the door on a particularly nasty morning, he had not expected the curvaceous form of a certain Miss Anthea to be outside. Part of him still registered the alluring body, the sensual eyes and soft, touchable hair. But the other was shocked at her appearance. While she still had the 'girl of your dreams' kind of looks, she was thinner, her face slightly gaunt. She had bags under her eyes and her hands looked like they hadn't had a manicure for weeks. Her designer clothes were ruffled, as if they hadn't been ironed and her hair seemed to have a few split ends.

"John." She said, her full lips twisting up slightly. "Is Sherlock here?"

"Upstairs…"

She pushed gently past him and folded down the umbrella she had been using to protect herself from the rain. It was only when John had climbed up the stairs after her did he notice it was exactly the same as Mycroft's.

"Ah, Anthea." Sherlock greeted her, touching her elbow to lead her to the kitchen. John had previously made two cups of tea, but like a gentleman, Sherlock offered John's to his guest. John raised a brow but Sherlock stopped him saying anything with a simple look. _I'm making an effort to be nice, _it said, _let me give her your tea._

"Thank you." Anthea muttered politely. She took a quick sip and hummed appreciatively. "You make a good cup, John."

"How did you know it was me?"

She scoffed, "You don't get to be Mycroft's assistant without picking up a few tips. Plus, Sherlock never makes the tea."

"I do sometimes." Sherlock said with a vulnerable scowl.

"Yes but you put… _things, _in it." John shuddered, remembering the occasion much too vividly.

There was a silent moment before John realized who was there. "Would you like anything else?"

"Privacy would be nice." She stared with her huge brown eyes, begging John to leave the room. She seemed to twitch, her fingers shaking whilst clasped on the warm mug. John nodded understandingly and beckoning Sherlock with him. Sherlock shook his head.

"She wants to talk to me."

John sighed and went to sit in the living room. He settled into his favorite chair and crossed his legs whilst reaching for the latest newspaper. Behind him, he heard Sherlock slide the kitchen door shut, leaving John isolated in the silence.

He couldn't hear anything, as much as he tried, he could only hear voices. The words they formed were much harder to catch. When he realized he was getting nowhere, he tried to focus on the headlines; _Woman kidnapped by masked youth. _John rolled his eyes at the simple wording and boring coverage the media gave the supposedly high profile case. Before he met Sherlock he would have been shocked, his heart would feel heavy knowing that some poor women was out there, scared. But now he knew that Scotland Yard could cope, within a week she would be safely returned to her family and this headline would be nothing more than a memory to London. It almost hurt, the fact that he had lost that side of him. He no longer felt depressed and upset over some crime, because he had seen the London battlefield, he knew what crimes really went on. If the media knew half the stuff he did, they'd explode. And then Sherlock would try and prove that the physics behind them exploding was impossible and pull his hair out at the impossibility.

An hour later, Sherlock and Anthea emerged. Anthea a little teary eyed, Sherlock his usual self, graceful, lean and unconsciously sensual. "Thank you, Anthea."

"Welcome. I hope I helped."

"I don't doubt it."

Anthea leaned into Sherlock and whispered in his ear, John pretended not to hear her. "_Thank you for letting me love him."_

She walked over to John and gave him a small kiss on the cheek, "Sorry I rejected you the first time we met. There was someone else."

She left and John waited until he heard the door close before pulling on Sherlock's arm, forcing him to sit on John's lap.

"What did she say?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Nothing I didn't already know."

"But you said she helped."

"Polite."

John squeezed Sherlock a little harder than he should have and kissed his shoulder. "She loved him, didn't she?""I knew you heard her. She wasn't quiet about it." Sherlock leaned into John, letting John wrap his arms around his waist.

"What did she mean though, _letting me love him?"_

Sherlock looked down at their now entwined hands, "She came to me, when she first became his assistant. She said that she knew we were close-wrong- but that she wanted to know if he was single." Sherlock smirked, "I lied at first, told her he was with someone. Lestrade, as a matter of fact. But she persisted, constantly asking me if she should ask him on a date. Eventually I gave up and let her have him. The feeling wasn't mutual, but she kept saying how happy he made her. Even though they were never in a true relationship, he made her so happy. She thanked me for that." They sat in silence, John's arms around Sherlock's lean figure. Sherlock's head lolled onto Johns shoulder and his fingers found John's stubbly cheek.

"We should go to bed." John said gruffly.

"Mm." Sherlock turned his head to the side so he could kiss John's neck, John arched and moaned.

"Ok, we should _really_ go to bed."

"I'm not tired." Sherlock mumbled against John's throat.

"Who said anything about sleeping?"

John jolted awake, Sherlock's hands wrapped around his shoulders, shaking them violently. Sherlock was completely naked and straddling John's stomach.

"Wake up!"

"Sherlock…"

"Up! Now!" He shook harder, John pushed against the taller man's chest and he fell off the bed, hair ruffled into a perfect mess.

"What are you doing?" John looked at the alarm clock; 5:30am.

"I figured it out John!" He erected himself, standing completely straight, the happiness and energy making his whole face glow. It was odd, to see such a smile on his face. It made John smile too.

"Figure what out?" He fluffed his hair and rubbed the small of his back and his hips, Sherlock may have caused serious damage… he hoped.

"Where Moriarty is! I'm sure of it!"

"You mean, his exact location? You're good, fantastic, in fact. But you can't seriously tell me you know where he is, right now?"

"No, don't be an idiot. I mean, I know that he is in a warehouse, converted into a flat probably. South of London, other side of the Thames." Sherlock jumped back onto the bed, breathing heavily in his excitement, he lay over John, pressing his body against the smaller man's mercilessly.

John tried to ignore Sherlock's lips as they moved down his chest, but when Sherlock found his erection with his tongue, John gave up. He let Sherlock's expert mouth work its magic but (with the willpower of a _god_) refused Sherlock's advances to go any further. "You… Oh fuck, Sherlock, no!"

Sherlock was preparing to enter John but pursed his lips like a sad child when John said no. "Why?"

"Pain. Lots of pain. Arse- sore." John sat up and Sherlock sighed deeply, inhaling a little too dramatically.

"Very well. I'll have to pleasure myself…" As his hand drifted towards his erection, John grabbed him.

"No. Two things. One- How do you know where Moriarty is? Two- I never said I wouldn't pleasure you." Sherlock smirked happily and bit John's neck, leaving marks over last nights. John needed to be marked permanently, always his.

"Moriarty likes to stay above it all, remember?" He said between nipping his lover's neck and collarbone, "He stays out of the firing line. It's highly unlikely he was in the car that hit Mycroft's. He wouldn't risk harming himself."

"He did at the pool." John whispered, enjoying himself far too much.

"Actually he gave himself ample time to escape. He knew what he was doing." Sherlock flicked his tongue over John's erect nipples and John sucked in a breath, Sherlock smiled and wrapped one hand in John's hair. "The car hit from the right, not full on. It was coming from the road on the right of Mycroft's car. That was a one way street, leading to other one way streets and narrow roads. Using Google Maps I managed to pin point three possible locations it could have come from. Five, if you count alleys and the like. Each of these locations- would you stop squirming! Each of these locations either leads to an abandoned lot or converted warehouse."

"I'm surprised you didn't figure out all that before."

"Well I was dealing with my brother's death. It's quite hard to think straight." "Sorry." John closed his eyes as Sherlock opened his lips and pressed them against John's. "Mmm, amazing."

"Do you realize you do that out loud?" Sherlock asked with a raised brow and cheeky smirk.

"Yes, and you love it."

Sherlock climbed into the cab alone. "St. Bartes hospital." John decided to stay at home, after a make out session which could only have led to sex left him with such a sore ass that he still hadn't stood up, even after Sherlock had a shower, ate breakfast and got dressed.. That had taken over an hour.

Sherlock's hair was still rumpled from his morning shag, so when he walked straight into the hospital's morgue, he received a raised eyebrow and a "Uhh…" noise from Miss Molly Hooper.

"Sherlock, your hair…" Her high voice, girly and dainty, rubbed against his ear drums as it often did. "It's a bit messy."

"Isn't it normally?"

"No, it's curly and floppy. This is just- well, different." She blushed and clutched her clipboard close to her chest. Sherlock scanned her quickly, he wished she knew how short those trousers made her look. And what was with the cardigan? Covered in cherries? He was sure she had a nice figure, if she really was desperate for a boyfriend - which she clearly was - she could at least flaunt herself.

However, mentioning all this to her probably wasn't the best way to get her to allow him to look at cadavers. So instead he said; "New shoes? On sale the other week weren't they? They look really nice, I was thinking of getting you them as a little thank you."

"Oh, Sherlock." She grinned, ten years slipping away from her. "You don't need to thank me for anything."

"But I do. Your always letting me look at bodies, what kind of person would I be if I didn't give a thanks to my favorite attendant?" He smiled a cheery smile and blinked, giving her a look that would weaken the knees of any woman.

"You want to look at someone I'm guessing?"

"Maybe. Got any recent car accident victims?" He walked with her to the morgue, watching her flip quickly through sheets of varying importance on her clipboard.

"Two men. One twenty-two the other fifty-six."

"Both. Please." Politeness never hurt anyone.

She pulled out the bodies in less than five minutes, unzipped the body bags up to their stomachs and gave Sherlock their data.

The twenty-two year old certainly looked the worst. Like a truck ran over him, not just bumped his car. Bruises cuts and lumps made his face unrecognizable from the photo on his file. His body was only slightly better. Luckily it was the older man Sherlock spent the most time on.

"Car collided into him from the right, yes?" Sherlock asked, leaning over the body with his magnifying glass. Drug user by the look of it, or was, a long time ago. Sherlock was highly fond of his magnifier, it helped him work out the life story of someone who could no longer tell it. Deducing after death.

"Yes. Sent him spinning."

"I imagine." Sherlock spent little more than thirty seconds examining the body, "Murder." He said, clicking his magnifier and tucking it into his pocket.

"What?"

"This man was hit on purpose, according to the file it was a small orange car that hit him. But it had been modified. The driver was a young man, arrested multiple times for drug dealing. This man took drugs. He was also speeding. He obviously didn't pay full price, the orange car hit with a purpose."

"O…k? Do the police know?"

"They will."

Sherlock was about to leave when Molly stopped him. "What happened to Jim?"

"Hmm?"

"My boyfriend. You said he was gay."

"He wasn't." Sherlock smiled, if only she knew.

"I know. He called me the other day. Said he wanted to meet up with me. Said you faked the number. Why would you lie to me?" She frowned and swayed slightly, as if she was afraid of being scolded.

"He called you?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Molly, do not meet up with this man. He-" A thought struck Sherlock, Moriarty wanted to be found. Why else would he have called the one person determined to make Sherlock jealous with the love of another man? Granted it didn't work, but that's not the point. The problem was, why? Why would Moriarty want to be found _this_ way? With Molly? Why was Molly needed when he could just turn up at their flat? So many questions… Ok. Sherlock would sneak on Molly's 'date' and bring John, that way Moriarty couldn't sic his assassins on him while Sherlock wasn't there. He'd get Molly out the firing line then beat the shit out of Moriarty for everything he's done. This was the first time Sherlock had thought; Pummel first, answer questions later. Even if Moriarty knew that Sherlock would be there, and he'd probably have more than enough people to kill him. He'd make sure that if he did die, he'd take Moriarty with him.

"When?"

"When what?" Molly asked, flinching from the violence in his voice.

"Your date."

"Oh uh… Two weeks today." She frowned and stepped out the door, beckoning Sherlock with her. "I'll lead you out. You don't look too good."

"I'm fine. More than fine."

"No. You're not. Go home, Sherlock." She practically pushed him out the door. Sherlock would do exactly what she said, go home to John. And prepare.

**A/N. Ok, so I'm aware that was the shitest ending to a chapter ever, but it was taking so long! It was massive! I kept saying to myself; "You have to end it now. But you still haven't done this… well ok. I'll do that then end it." But you see, that time never came. So I had to force an ending. ****L**** Hoping that next chapter will be shorter. I say hope. **

**Next Chapter: There's a traitor in their midst… someone has tricked John. He's alone, scared, completely out of Sherlock's detection- and Moriarty is lingering in the shadows.**

**Huh. From the sound of that it's gonna be long. Damn it all!**

**Keep reviewing please, the ones pointing out my grammar mistakes are incredibly helpful! Oh and say nice things too, to boost my already large ego. ;)**


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter Nine:_

"This isn't good."

"Oh well done, John. Your observations are second to none." Sherlock was pacing the flat anxiously, hands steepled in front of his face in a pose John could only describe as 'pondering face'.

"What do we do?" John asked, determined to get Sherlock to calm down. He wasn't taking this too well. To be honest, neither was John. It's always awkward when the man who wants to kill you was planning to do it in two weeks. Sherlock had explained everything at such a rapid pace that John had only just let things sink in, what he knew scared him, more than he was going to let Sherlock know.

"As of right now, nothing. There is nothing we can do. If he's going to make himself known in two weeks, then we shall deal with him then. It'll be impossible to find him now." Sherlock flopped onto the sofa next to John, a mess of lanky limbs and black hair. John nudged slowly closely until he could lean his head on Sherlocks shoulder.

A week passed quickly, Sherlock acting infuriatingly normal. Well, normal for Sherlock wasn't exactly normal, but John was still angered by how calmly Sherlock was acting. It made no sense. Inside, John was a trembling mess, if what Sherlock said was a hundred percent accurate, then John was going to die in a week. And from what he could see, Sherlock was doing nothing about it. But John trusted him, when the time came, he knew he'd be safe. He _hoped _he would be safe.

"We're going out." Sherlock announced, wet feet slapping against kitchen floor. John raised a brow, Sherlock was half naked, wearing only a towell to cover his… man parts. He was dripping wet, hair pressed against his flushed face. "Get dressed."

"I could say the same." John scoffed, gesturing to the luscious almost nakedness that was Sherlock.

"I'm about to. I just need to dry." He sat on the chair closest to him, covering the table and John's un-read newspaper in water.

"Sherlock!" John scolded and leapt from his chair. He prepared to shout at Sherlock, but Sherlock was smiling, lups pulled back from his teeth in a predatorily way. Deep lust clouded his eyes and John was finding it very hard not to get an impromptu erection. "Stop it."

"No."

"Sherlock Holmes…" No, no use. Sherlock stood up and walked over to John, he pressed their bodies close, water seeped through the thin material of John's shirt and cooled his skin. Warm moist lips touched John's hesitantly. Shrugging away all that hesitance, John clasped his fingers in Sherlock's drenched hair and forced his mouth open. He felt more than heard Sherlock's accompanying groan and he spread his legs and lifted Sherlocks towel to reveal Sherlock's already rock hard cock.

Safe to say that the rest of that morning passed with a blur of orgasm's and indescirable pleasure. Sherlock knew exactly where to tease John, nipping lightly at the base of his erection, sucking and biting the hollow of his neck and collarbone, John doubted there wasn't a part of him Sherlock didn't know how to make feel good.

It was around lunch when they stopped and they were lying on the tile floor of the kitchen, backs pressed up against the counter. Sherlocks damp towell was covering the lower half of their bodies. John began to shiver.

"The floor's cold. I'm going to get dressed." He pressed a quick kiss onto Sherlock's lips and was rewarded with a satisfied moan. He dashed, naked and freezing, up the stairs to his room, hoping Mrs Hudson wouldn't happen to poke her head round the staircase.

He threw on his favourite jumper and casual jeans, smoothing his messy hair briefly before heading back to Sherlock. He whistled as he walked but was halted by the sight of Sherlock, already dressed impeccably, tapping his foot impatiently by the window.

"What's wrong?" John asked, peering over Sherlocks shoulder to look too. From what he could see, there was nothing remarkable about Baker Street that day. But Sherlock seemed to think otherwise.

"That van, the black one. It's license plates been covered with duct tape."

"Probably some boy racer hiding from the police." John shrugged.

"Boy racer? With that van? I doubt it. They have those modified cars. This… is a criminal organisation."

"Lestrade would have called if he thought there was anything odd." John went to sit down, no longer bothering to stare at the 'mysterious' van.

"Hmm." Was Sherlocks blunt reply.

"Not everything has something to do with a case, you know."

"Hmm." Sherlock repeated.

"Your thinking about this too much."

"Am I?"

John was beginning to get frustrated, it was just a van! "Yes! Now, come here. I want to cuddle." Like a child, John outstretched his arms and sighed when Sherlock slipped into them, sitting on his lap. "Isn't that better?"

"No, not really."

"Sherlock!"

"It isn't! I know there's something funny about that van. I'm going to investigate." He leapt from John's lap violently and shrugged on his coat and scarf. "Coming?"

"Of course." John mumbed, wishing - not for the first time - that Sherlock was just a little bit more normal.

"See? Nothing wrong with it." John said triumphantly, standing on the pavement with folded arms while Sherlock crouched down to inspect the car's underside. "Can we go inside now? I'm cold."

"You can." Sherlock said, tapping various points. "I'm staying until-"

"Until what, Sherlock? It's. A. _Van._ That's all there is to it! I've accepted your other random quirks, but it's getting ridiculous! You don't have to examine everything that's slightly off with the world."

"But I do. When I don't, bad things happen. How do you know this van doesn't belong to Moriarty's henchmen?" Sherlock stood up, frowning, and walked over to John who instantly took a step back. "Just because _you _think it's just a van doesn't mean it is."

"Just because you think it's part of some elaborate mafia crime… thing, doesn't mean it is either!"

"But I'm usually right."

"You stubborn bastard!" John shouted, he stormed away, resisting the urge to comfort the tall man, who was now stood there with a rather cute hurt look on his face.

"John!"

"No!" John yelled without turning around.

"But, Moriarty! You can't go out alone!" John could hear Sherlock racing to catch up with him, so he span round, squared up to Sherlock and put his army face on. His eyes furrowed and burned, he made his shoulders broad and almost snarled. This time, it was Sherlock who stepped back. He hadn't seen John like this… full of raw anger and power. Waves of pure agression where rolling off of him, actually _scaring_ the inscareable Holmes. It was mesmerising and made Sherlock love this little dangerous man even more.

"Don't. Don't you dare, tell me what to do right now. Moriarty won't come after me for another week, so shut the fuck up, and go home."

"Where will you go?"

"None of your damn business." With that, John walked away again, this time, he wasn't followed.

How stupid did Sherlock think he was? How stupid was Sherlock? If there was the slightest rumour of a gang or a crime happening anywhere near Baker Street, Lestrade would've called. If that van meant anything at all, why would it park right next to the house of the worlds only consulting detective? After the incident at the pool, criminals everywhere knew who Sherlock was. Was that man really that modest that he didn't know that?

John's rage continued until he realised he had no idea where he was.

"Bit not good…" It wasn't dark, so John wasn't scared. However he was slightly unnerved. It wasn't every day a fully grown man got lost in his home city, so he had to be somewhere close to a place he found recognisbable. Calming his breathing, he walked down the street until he came to a crossroads. Neither direction looked like they came to a main road of any kind, so John backtracked.

Even when going in the direction he just came in, he couldn't find anything to tell him where he was. "Great. Just what I need." He rooted around in his pockets for his cell. Calling Sherlock wasn't on his list of what he wanted to do, but it seemed the only reasonable option. He rummaged for ages, panicing when he realised he didn't have It. It was in the flat. On the coffee table. Still bleeping from that face book annoucement he couldn't be bothered to read."You look lost." A gruff voiced shouted. John span on the spot and a tall, burly, bald and scary looking bloke waved at him from across the street.

"Yeah, do you know where Baker Street is?" He called back.

The man nodded and crossed the road, his stride three times as large as John's. He grabbed John's shoulder with one hand and pointed with the other.

"See, where you gotta go is-"

He hadn't had time to react. The mans hand curled into a fist and punched him so hard he hit the curb in less than a second. He could feel the throbbing pain that told him his skull was fractured. He also felt a piece of rope winding around his throat. The man cursed as John struggled helplessly. The man tightened his grip and John's eyes rolled back into his head

It had been hours. John still hadn't returned. Sherlock tapped his foot on the floor impatiently. He was fine… he knew London quite well, if he was lost, he'd ask for directions. He was probably at the pub, with his friends.

_What friends? _Sherlock head asked. _Because of you, John has no friends. You're a loner, and now he is too. _Sherlock couldn't help but realise that was right. Sherlock was the freak, the loser, the sociopath, and he had drawn John in with his wild ways and mysterious personality. John was the kind of guy who'd be surrounded by people. If it wasn't for Sherlock. Impatiently and with an air of worry that he hated, he prepared to leave to look for his boyfriend. On his way out, his phone beeped. He looked quickly at the caller ID. _Molly Hooper. _What could she possibly want that was more important than this? Still walking, he read the text quickly.

_He has me and John. Help. 412 Brookside._

Without another moment, Sherlock hailed a cab and called out the address.

John woke suddenly, wrenched from the most horrific nightmare, it was after he'd steadied his breathing that he realised where he was. Or, where he thought it was. It was damp, cold and pitch black. He was uncomfortable, his wrists and ankles hurt and his head and throat throbbed, then he remembered. A man in black, huge guy, muscles like a pro wrestler. He'd punched him, then when he realised John wasn't out for the count, he strangled him.

His vision slowly began to clear, the darkness melted into a yellowy kind of light, only one light bulb was on but it was dim and fading slowly. Taking a good look around, he noticed that it looked like a warehouse basement. He appeared to be directly in the center, sat on a chair. No, strapped tightly to a chair. The light bulb was directly above him, illuminating where he was sat in a golden circle.

"Help!" He called out, then winced. When he spoke, knives seemed to travel up his throat along with his voice. If he could have looked in a mirror he knew there would be a bright red band across his larynx, from the strangling. "Help! Down here!" He shouted again.

He knew that no one would come, it was a feeble effort to escape and he knew it. But after thirty seconds or so he heard footsteps, wet and heavy in front of him. They echoed loudly, pounding against his already sore head. He could see a figure, a black blur at the moment, but as it stepped slowly closer he saw that it was a man. Holding a small gun. Wearing… a trench coat?

"Sherlock!" John cried, relief washing through him, "Moriarty, I think, this was him wasn't it?" Instead of the deep sensual tones he expected in reply, he got a sob and a sniff.

"Sherlock?"

"Lestrade." The man croaked, Gregg Lestrade stepped into the light holding a similar gun to John's L9A1. John gasped and struggled against his bonds. "Sorry, John. That won't work. He did them himself." Lestrades hands shook as he raised the handgun level to John's face. He was crying, heavily. Nose red as if he had a cold, eyes streaming clear tears as if his body was expelling all it's water. "This is part of his game, I'm so sorry. He… He has my kids. All five of them. So-Sorry Doctor."

John almost felt relief. Almost. At least Lestrade wasn't in cohorts with Moriarty, that would have been too much for him to deal with. He was doing this for his children, it was almost understandable.

"Is there anyway I can convince you this is a bad idea?" John asked.

Lestrade nearly cracked a smile, "I know it is. But… I can't let them… I can't let him hurt them." John nodded, closing his head ans he heard Lestrade steady himself.

"_Sherlock! No! No, no Sherlock not that! Oh come on!" John yelled from the living room. Sherlock just laughed and continued to throw heavy things down the stairs. "It's an experiment John!" Ah, that much used phrase. It seemed to be the excuse for everything, but whn Sherlock threw the last of the milk down the stairs, only for it to explode against the wall, John had stood up and headed into the kitchen to confront the consulting detective. He grabbed the mug - his favourite mug - out of Sherlocks hand and placed it on the table. _

"_No more. Stop it now, experiment on something else." John kissed his lover on the nose sweetly. Sherlock was so worried about Anthea's visit, she hadn't turned up yet and Sherlock was experimenting so often throughout the day that John feared for the flats life. _

"_Can I experiment on you?" _

"_No."_

"_Why?" Sherlock whined, stamping his foot like a child. John rolled his eyes and led Sherlock by the hand into the living room._

"_Because last time you 'experimented' on me, I ended up almost falling from the roof of St Bartes." John recalled with a shudder._

"_Yes but we weren't sexually involved with each other. I'm sure I could make this experiment _very _interesting…"_

John remembered fondly what happened after that, the many uses of chocolate and strawberries made into a list only for Sherlock. He shuddered deliciously before remembering his situation.

Lestrade was still stood in front of him, still holding the gun, but not doing anything. He was looking at the corner he had appeared from only three minutes before.

"He's coming!" Lestrade began shaking violently, "So sorry, John."

As his finger closed around the trigger, John closed his eyes and bowed his head.

"No, no no. That's not the rules, Lestrade. We've been through this." A familiar sing-song voice danced out of the shadows, accompanied by the suited elegance that could only be described as the worlds only consulting criminal. John gasped and suddenly found it hard to breath, he'd known that Moriarty would find him, known that the moment he had been knocked out that Moriarty would have had something do with it. But it had finally sunk in, he was going to die.

"Wouldn't want anything happening to Johnny boy before it needs to." Moriarty walked over calmly, examining his fingernails with a curious expression.

"Sherlock will stop you." John croaked, voice hoarse from being strangled.

"No he won't. He can't. You see, it's all part of my new game. Awfully entertaining and all,killing his brother. But I'm bored now. It needed to be stepped up. My dear Sherlock is currently on the other side of London, saving someone who _isn't _you." He smiled, the grin lighting an evil glow in his dark eyes. "My date, funnily enough. Is that irony? I'm never to sure."

"Game? You'll lose, and you know it. You lost last time."

His smile widened, showing shark like teeth. "It was a draw. No one died. That's why I'm doing this, I promised I'd burn the heart out of him. I'm sure you realise that was my metaphor for you." He shoved his hands in his pockets, in the darkness, it looked as though the black suit wasn't there, John could only really see the white of his shirt and his head, it looked like he was a ghost, which was eerily close to the truth. Always there, never seen, prescense felt at all times. He led a fearful existence, inflicting pain upon those who deserved none, making a deal with him was just as bad as a deal with the devil. "Well, now I have you. All to myself. Sherlock will try and save Molly - my date - and then he'll try and come after you. I say try, he'll end up killing them both. Oh, don't look so shocked! It means you live! I'll only get Gregg here to kill you if he lives. See I can't have both of you running around London like Batman and Robin can I? It really puts a downer on my day when my criminals end up behind bars."

John said nothing, contemplating Moriarty's words. If Sherlock lived, he dies. If Sherlock dies, he lives. It was no kind of a life without Sherlock, John needed him, loved him. He'd kill himself if he survived this. Lestrade's muffled sobs echoed in the black, John closed his eyes and hoped for the best, remembering the times he'd had with his life partner. He knew that's what they were, what they'd always been, ever since that first meeting at Bartes. The rope on his wrists burned, the ropes around his ankles were making them twist into a painful position, but he had his mind free from pain. For his mind was the only place were he could be in peace with Sherlock in these final moments. He knew they were his last few hours. There was no way that Sherlock would die, none at all. RAMC John Watson was going to die.

**A/N. Oh dear… John's situation isn't looking too bright. Quite upset really, I promised myself when I started writing I wouldn't do this, but hey. Things happen. Plus this is a lot better than the other idea I had for this. **

**Next Chapter: Does Sherlock live or die? Does John live or die? Do they both live? Do they both die? Ooh who knows? Well, apart from me. None of you… **

**Review! xx**


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter Ten: _

"Can't you go any faster?" Sherlock asked impatiently, leaning forwards on his seat to talk to the driver.

"Not without breaking the speed limit." The short stumpy man was quickly getting on Sherlock's nerves. This was a 40 street. He was going thirty. There was a whole 10mph extra he could have been going.

"I'm in a bit of hurry." "Oh yeah, life or death right?"

"Yes as a matter of fact." Sherlock's fingers began drumming on his knee; he tapped his foot against the floor, continuously glancing at his watch.

"That's what they all say.""I'm sure they don't all tell you that if you don't move any quicker, I'll knock you out and drive your cab for you." True, Sherlock couldn't drive. But he was a quick learner. He'd figure it out before he crashed.

The cabbie gave a short laugh. "You're a funny one aren't you?" He sighed, "Alright mister, I'll put my foot down. You're paying me an extra tenner if I get caught."

Sherlock smiled to himself. _Am I? _

They pulled up to 412 Brookside in twenty minutes. Sherlock threw a fifty onto his lap and walked away before he could get change.

The moment the cab was out of sight, Sherlock ran, full speed, round the back of the old house and kicked hard on the back door. The garden was over grown and filled with weeds. The fence was tall and thick, and since the door splintered almost instantly, Sherlock was sure no one had seen or heard him.

If the house itself was a mess, the inside was a pig sty. Outside hadn't looked too attractive, with its rat colored walls and boarded windows… He had to admit, he'd expected something a little less cliché. Sherlock suspected Moriarty had chosen practicality over anything else. The whole street had run down houses such as this. All abandoned, all old. No one would be hurt if anything went wrong. More importantly, no one would call the police if they saw a tall man dressed in black breaking in.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, pivoting on the spot. "John, where are you?"

Very faintly, he heard muffled yells coming from a room upstairs. A woman's, Molly's. Well if she was up there, John must be too. Without a regard for personal safety, Sherlock sprinted up the stairs and kicked open the door to the bedroom.

"John- John?" All he could see was Molly. Strapped harshly to a chair in the center of the room. No furniture, no lights, no John.

She was crying and bleeding where the rope had cut her wrists, Sherlock could see a pool of it gathered under her chair.

He quickly untied her and pulled the gag of her mouth. He spared no time.

"Where is he?"

"H…Who?" She gasped, massaging her throat. Thick bands of red and purple bruises circled her neck and both her eyes were black where she had been punched. Now Sherlock looked, it was obvious she had been beaten. Her clothes were torn and bloody, her hair tangled and messy, her face looked as though she'd just walked into a wall. But her _arms._ Cuts - both thick and thin - littered the skin like freckles, as if she had been pricked with pins of a various width and sharpness.

"Who did this?"

"I… I don't know." She coughed, "Not Jim, he… he just watched." She licked her lips hungrily, "I'm sorry, but he doesn't have John here. I didn't send that text. And now you're going to die." She burst into floods of tears and tried to stand, for she had fallen the first time Sherlock tried to help her stand.

"What? Explain, everything." His quick eyes searched her face, she was clearly trying to stay calm, but she was in the throes of a panic attack. Sherlock had little patience in general, even less now John was almost surely in mortal danger.

"Jim called. Said that he'd moved our date to this evening. He came to pick me up, but instead of Angelo's where he said he'd take me, he brought me here. And…" She coughed and gulped, Sherlock tried to hide his impatience behind a mask of almost sincere concern. "There was someone waiting, a tall man, built like a mountain. He hurt me, and Jim stood there and _laughed._" She wiped away her tears and remained quiet. "And John? Where's he?" Sherlock said after he couldn't sit waiting any longer.

"I don't know. But now you have me, you're not going to make it out."

"Why?"Molly shook her head, "I'm sorry."

"Why? Molly, what did you do?"

"He has my Mum and Dad. If I don't… If I don't kill you, he'll kill them." Just at that moment, as Sherlock stood up, ready to fight or run, the man that strangled John, that beat Molly, appeared in the doorway with a bat and an evil smirk. Sherlock rushed to the window but it was double glazed and bolted tight. Molly sniffed and shakily pulled out a gun from her waistband. "Sorry Sherlock." She aimed the gun at his head.

The punch came out of nowhere. One minute John was stood, staring into the eyes of one of Moriarty's tougher henchmen, the next, fist to the face. Another. Another. Another. Over and over again, until tears stung John's eyes and he spat out blood. He was dizzy and his vision was blurry, there was a ringing and a pounding in his head, it hurt, a lot.

"Take it easy. Don't want him dead just yet." Moriarty's voice drifted from the shadows. "You know it pains me to do this John-""No it doesn't." John breathed."Excuse me?""You love this. Watching pain, watching hurt and death. You're a sadist.""Why, that might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Although, it's been said before. Numerous amounts of times. Come up with something better and then we'll talk. Until then…"

The punches continued, hard and fast and brutally on target. His head, his chest, his bad shoulder, his legs, his crotch. Everywhere hurt and John didn't think he could stand any more without passing out. But he had to endure, he had to prove he was better than Moriarty thought. Not just a 'pet' of Sherlock's, but completely deserving of his place by his side. No matter how much pain he was in, he'd endure it for Sherlock.

"Molly, you can't be serious."

"Sorry.""So you keep saying. But isn't it obvious? He doesn't really have your parents. He's saying it to get you to do as he wants. It's part of his game, you know that surely." Sherlock hoped he was right. There were some things he couldn't deduce, and the mind of his favorite consulting criminal was one.

The man at the door was tapping the bat threateningly, edging slowly into the room, forcing Sherlock into a corner.

"And if you are going to kill me - which your clearly not - you would've already. And why is he here?"

"Because Jim knew I wouldn't be able to do it alone." She closed her eyes and the man moved out of her way. Sherlock's eyes widened in shock as she squeezed the trigger.

"Molly!" He cried, but she had shot. Blinding pain seared across his right leg, forcing him to the floor where he yelled and rocked, holding his wound. She had a bad aim, luckily. Instead of shooting out his knee cap like she'd intended, she had shot him mid-calf. There was a lot of blood, and a lot of pain, but he wouldn't bleed to death so long as he could stop the pressure. Just as his mind was focusing on getting to the rope Molly had been bound with, the bat swung down hard on the side of his head. And kept hitting. Sherlock raised his arms over his face and head and began an agonizing crawl. But each time he moved too close to the chair, a kick in his stomach would roll him over onto his back, where the torment with the bat would continue. He was losing consciousness and the man wasn't boring any time soon. He was too strong for Sherlock. Instead of a mental fight like Sherlock was used to, it was brute strength that was tearing him down. Disappointing really, Sherlock had hoped to be out smarted to death, not beaten to a bloody pulp like a common mugging victim. Beaten or not, he couldn't focus. He could hardly move. But he still formed a plan. Instead of crawling to the chair, he blocked yet another hit and turned his whole body so that he was facing the door. On his hands and knees, he tried to crawl towards it, but again was kicked in the stomach. He landed roughly on his back all air rushing out of him along with blood and bile. Whilst on his back, still guarding, he rolled over twice, grabbed a chair leg and threw it into his attackers face, ignoring the roar of protest from his probably fractured arm.

If he could have smirked he would have, because the wood from the chair had splintered on impact and knocked the brute out. It wasn't a pretty sight, watching an almost seven foot man collapse with splinters in his face, but hey. Sherlock had won - if you can count being beaten to half death winning.

Molly had fled, not wishing to see the carnage she had caused. It was a good thing really, as she wasn't there to stop him. Ignoring his concussion and internal bleeding, he grabbed a rope and tied it very tightly around his calf, almost stopping the bleeding completely. However there was no way he could stand. It was a chore just to stay awake. There was no longer a chair for him to support himself on, and even with the famous willpower he had, he yelled out in pain and did something a healthy Sherlock would never do. He called out for help.

Unaware that he had lost consciousness, John awoke with a killer pain in his leg. _Great. _he thought, _Unconscious twice in twenty four hours. That's a record._

He noticed that his beating had stopped, no more punches. He knew he'd look a state, a mess, bloody and battered, but he doubted it mattered. It wasn't like anyone was ever going to see him again. "Where's the prick?" He coughed, hoping his course voice was clear enough to be understood.

"Language, John." Moriarty stepped smugly into the light. "He was needed somewhere else.""Where?""He had to take care of Sherlock. Whose dead!." He clapped and a wide grin broke out on his face. He rocked backwards and forwards gleefully on his heels, humming happily.

John made a noise then, in between human and animal. A growl, which held the promise of a thousand deaths. "He's not! Who told you? They're lying! It's a lie!"

"No it isn't. And that's what makes it wonderful. Miss Molly Hooper text me. She was the one that killed him. Well, helped." Moriarty came as close to John as he could, and crouched down in front of him, he reached up and stroked John's cheek. John, doing the only thing he could think of, bit Moriarty's finger. Hard. "Ouch, John. Naughty. Going to have to get you a muzzle…"

"It's not true!" John spat, "Molly wouldn't! She couldn't even if she wanted to!" John tried to rock his chair, struggle violently against his bonds, but it was making him dizzy. He had taken a rough beating, he couldn't escape this, he'd either have to die or be let go.

He couldn't believe that Sherlock was dead. Especially not if Molly had anything to do with it. Sherlock was a good fighter, amazing in fact… But up against a brute like the guy who'd beaten John… well he didn't stand a chance. He sobbed once and tried meekly to escape. "Not my Sherlock…"

"_Your _Sherlock?" He jumped up with a wide grin and took a shocked step back. "Oh now that's a _lovely_ surprise! Finally together. I must admit, a tad predictable. It was too obvious you'd get together. Still, I'm so happy for you! Although now I suppose, you'll be forever alone. Dr Watson, no husband. No friends, doomed for an empty life in an empty flat with an empty fridge."

"I'll kill myself." he whispered.

"No you won't. You're not that type of person."

"Without Sherlock I'm no one."

"Don't get all mopey on me, please. I can't stand the tears. Who were you before him? An army doctor. A successful one at that." Moriarty walked over to Lestrade, who was still holding the gun. Looking pale, shaky and close to tears, but still completely under Moriarty's control.

"You can leave, Detective Inspector. I no longer have a need for you.""My children?" Lestrade croaked.

"Your… _Oh._ They're fine. At home with their mother. I didn't actually take them, I'm a lot of things but I don't mess with _children._ God, what do you take me for? No, you see, it was all to get you to come and play. I like a little family drama in my games."

For a moment, Lestrade looked like he was just going to run out, but the full impact of Moriarty's words hit him before he took a step. His light eyes took on an animalistic darkness, his face scrunched up and he tightened his grip around the rifle and took a stance John knew only too well; the pose of a soldier preparing for war.

"I was going to kill him for you!" He screamed, "My friend! I was going to shoot him!""I know. De-_lightful_ wasn't it?"

Lestrade roared and attempted to hit Moriarty in the face with the butt of his rifle, but Moriarty's hand shot out of his pocket and he seemed to briefly touch Lestrade on the back. Lestrade stopped. It was sudden, as if someone had hit pause on the Sky remote. Lestrade gagged, and fell forward, revealing a small but sharp jackknife buried deep into his chest from behind. John shouted but Moriarty sighed.

"I hate getting my hands dirty." A pool of blood was beginning to seep under Lestrade, so close to death. His eyelids were closed but his fingers were twitching. John's breathing increased. He knew how to save people in this situation. He could help him! If he wasn't tied up. In a minute, Lestrade stopped moving completely. And John lost whatever hope he had left. Two people he cared about dead in less than an hour. First; his flat mate. His partner. His sociopath, the love of his life. Second, a potential friend, someone who understood the insane ways of Sherlock. He could have talked to Lestrade, gotten to know him, had a few drinks with him, but now he was alone.

"You didn't have to do that." John growled."I did." Moriarty sounded insulted, "He was going to kill me!""I'm going to kill you." John growled, "The moment I get out of here, I'm going to hunt you down, and tear out your throat. I promise you that."

**A/N; Dun Dun Duh! I have no idea what I'm doing! Why am I hurting my characters like this? Why? It's a mystery that will baffle the greatest minds… Anyway, I hope you like it, and I hope that Lestrades death wasn't too sad. I don't want this to be a sob story. I'm writing one of those next. ;) At least I didn't kill Sherlock! That was my original plan btw. Yeah. I know. Idiot.**

**Next chapter: Sherlock comes to the rescue! Or does he… He has been shot in the leg after all. He couldn't even walk two meters on his own. And lestrade's dead now, so John's all alone, and still in Moriarty's clutches… **

**Reviews… please. Xx**

**Oh and I won't be uploading any more chapters until after the new year, I'm very busy over Christmas and won't have time to write and upload. But fear not, when I do next upload, I'll upload all the last chapters. xx**


	11. Chapter 11

_**Chapter Eleven:**_

**Hey guy's I'm back! Sorry about the long gap between uploads but I was very busy, as I'm sure I explained in the previous A/N. I thought I'd upload the last two chapters today to celebrate the release of Sherlock Season two! Happy Sherlock day Fan's! Enjoy and Review x**

Sherlock's croaky voice rang clearer than he thought it would. He hoped help would come, but he doubted so. There was no one in the houses on this street and he wasn't loud enough anyway to be heard a whole street over. He fumbled in his pockets, hoping he had his phone.

Why he hadn't thought about calling anyone before had baffled him. Although he'd forgive himself, it wasn't every day he got shot, had his skull bashed in and his ribs broken.

His rushed hands pulled out his phone and for a moment he didn't know what number to punch in. Lestrade? The hospital? John? No, not John. His phone was in the flat. The hospital would help him but by the time he got stitched up and scanned, there wouldn't be time to save John. He punched in Lestrade's personal cell number and tapped his fingers.

Moriarty hadn't even bothered to move Lestrades body. He was still lying in a pool of his own blood. Every fibre in John screamed in protest. He had to move it, or at least close his eyes. The disrespect was too much, he had been a good man, he didn't deserve to fester and rot in his own filth. Everything about him was wrong, he was bent in a way that should he have been alive would have been too uncomfortable to bear. His keys, phone and wallet had fallen out of his pockets. Moriarty was waffling away, talking to no one in particular, about his victory over Sherlock Holmes.

John sniffed and stared at the blank screen of Lestrade's mobile. Suddenly the screen lit up. It began to ring, quiet at first then louder. He couldn't see the caller ID, but Moriarty obviously could. He growled and lifted the phone to his ear.

"Who is this?"

John could hear a voice, it was deep but unrecognisable. He couldn't hear the words the voice formed. He hoped it was someone coming to save him, but he knew how unlikely that was to happen.

"That's not possible…" Moriarty actually sounded troubled. Confused. It was wonderful to see the effect this caller had on him. John sent out respect to whoever it was.

"No, Lestrade's dead I'm afraid. And even if this is you - which I don't believe for an instant - then…." More blabbering on the other end of the phone. "Ah, I see. Well then I'm sure you know what that means then, don't you?" This time the voice was loud enough and angry enough that John caught some of the words.

"…Hurt…Leave…Alone…Rescue…Kill." For a moment, John could have sworn that in the depths of the husky anger, he heard Sherlock. His tone, his elegant way of pronouncing everything, it all sounded familiar. But it couldn't be… he was dead. Moriarty hung up with a look of sheer disgust on his face.

"Who was it?" John said delicately.

"No one you need to concern yourself with."

"It _was_ him, wasn't it? Sherlock. He's not dead."

Moriarty wheeled around to face him and flung the phone at his face. It struck him painfully hard across his already bruised cheek and John yelled. "I'll take that as a yes." Moriarty roared, he punched a pillar that was standing near by, he ran out of the circle of light and screamed, beating the wall as he went. John couldn't help but smirk, Sherlock was ok. Probably very hurt, but he was alive. Breathing. Well enough to call for the one person who would help him. But then he realised something… Moriarty now knew that Sherlock was alive. And the rules of the game clearly stated that if Sherlock lived, John would die.

He wasn't scared. Not when Moriarty walked back into the light, grinning like the Joker. Not when he picked up the rifle that had fallen at Lestrades feet. And not when the barrel of the gun was pointed at his face. He just closed his eyes. He sat in silence, prolonging his last moments. He smiled when he heard Moriarty reload and waited…

A loud bang made both John and Moriarty jump, More bangs followed that original and continued until John heard wood splinter somewhere in the darkness. Moriarty shifted the gun away from John's face and began fireing randomly into the pitch black. As far as John could tell, he hadn't hit anyone.

A stone hit the wall behind John. Moriarty ran into the shadows. "Who is it?" He shouted, "Whose here?"

"Scotland Yard, John's ex, and his very pissed off sister. But we aren't the ones you need to worry about."

John's heart leapt as Sally Donovan, Anderson, Harry, Sarah and some other police men stepped into the light. He couldn't see anyone that should cause Moriarty any worry, that is, until Anthea stepped out, dressed in long trousers and a blaser - wrapping fabric tightly around her hands. John raised an eyebrow. Anthea, preparing to fight… ridiculous.

Moriarty dived back into the shadows and lined up the rifle behind John's head.

"How did you do this? Tell me! Or bang, his brains will decorate your clothes."

Harry scoffed and all the members of Scotland Yard (John counted twelve, including Sally and Anderson) pulled out handguns and aimed them at Moriarty.

"That's not the best idea for two reasons. One; I could shoot him before you shot me. Two; how do you know one of your bullets won't miss me and hit him?"

"Because they don't have bullets in their guns." A deep, sensual, all too familiar voice jumped out the darkness bedimmed Moriarty. Sherlock wheeled - yes, wheeled, he was in a wheelchair - into the light, smiling. He gestured once to Anthea, who ran full speed into Moriarty and knocked him to the floor with one punch.

"You…Killed…Mycroft!" Between each word, she hit, snarling visciously.

"When did she learn _that?_" John asked as Sherlock began untying him.

"Mycroft didn't employ her because of her looks, John. She's fully trained in almost all fighting forms."

Moriarty's eyes were closing, his hands kept reaching for the gun that had been knocked out of his grasp, but Sarah placed her heeled foot on it just as his fingers reached it. Anthea roared and struck his arm just below his elbow, Moriarty's scream drowned out the sounds of bone breaking. Each punch and scratch was timed to perfection, nothing was random, she was fighting with a proffesionalism that John had only ever seen in Afghanistan. It was a remarkable sight.

"Time to leave I think." John was free and Sherlock grabbed his waist before he fell and placed him on his lap. "Sarah, anytime now." She nodded, kicked the gun as far away as she could and began pushing Sherlock and John towards the exit. Moriarty's screams of pain stopped when they got outside, but then they heard a loud gunshot. They stopped dead in their tracks, fearing the worst, but Anthea came running out, hair neat, make up tidy, completely clean, as if she had been at a casual dinner instead of battering the worlds most dangerous criminal.

"Moriarty?" Sherlock asked, as the police and other rescuers gathered round.

"Dead. Or I should hope so. Not many men live a rifle round straight through their forehead." She braced her hands on her knees and breathed deeply. "No one hurts Mycroft. No one."

Sherlock smiled at her, "I know you loved him Anthea. And I know that this may not be what you wanted, but you could always work for me now."

She looked up and nodded her acceptance. John climbed of Sherlocks lap and leaned against the wall of the alley.

"Thank you." He said to Sherlock. "So much."

Sherlock chuckled, "I love you too." The surrounded people either Aw'ed, scoffed or clapped.

"But how did you do this? I was told you were dead."

"I was close. I received a text from Molly Hooper, asking me to save her and you from a location almost ten miles from this one. I went there, to find her alone. I freed her but she shot me in the leg because Moriarty had told her he had her Mother and Father which I still don't think he did. Anyway, I was then beaten to near death by an ex proffestional wrestler. I managed to knock him unconscious and tie him up with the ropes from Molly's chair. I then called Lestrade, to which Moriarty answered, claiming he was dead. Unfortunatelty that was all too true. Now, I happened to insert a tracking device onto his car, which he had used to drive himself and Moriarty here. Therefore I was able to determine your location once I knew that Moriarty had been with Lestrade. It was just luck that he used Lestrade's car. I then text everyone on my contacts and asked them to meet me here, although I sent a separate one to Sarah asking her to bring a wheelchair from the surgery to my location then get us a taxi here. We arrived, Anthea shot him in the head, now I'm taking us both to the hospital because I think your going to pass out."

**A/N One chapter left. Sob. I promise it's a good one, but it's very different from the rest of the fic. You'll see why when you click that little next chapter button. Go on, do it. You know you want to.**


	12. Chapter 12

_**Chapter Twelve:**_

The Personal Blog Of John H. Watson.

After the incredible incident at the warehouse, in which both myself and Sherlock almost got killed, I have decided to write my final blog post. The events were traumatising, but I think that since our Anthea shot Moriarty dead, the crime rate in London will drop considerably. I would just like to say that Gregg Lestrade's funeral was attended by almost a hundred people. He was a great man and will be missed more than I can say. Detective Inspector Dimmock has taken control of Scotland Yard (much to Sherlock's horror).Oh, and speaking of Sherlock, a week after Lestrade's funeral, he proposed.. We married two day's ago and he's currently packing all my clothes and multiple experiments for our honeymoon. Which he is refusing to tell me anything about. I hope the readers have enjoyed my blogs, and I hope they take inspiration, but I have to leave now, Sherlocks trying to sneak severed fingers into my luggage.

John Hammish Holmes-Watson.

The Science Of Deduction.

I have just been informed that John has once again been blabbering about our marriage. Typical. I ask him to keep it to himself. I should never trust one so cuddly.

I would like to point out that those fingers are completely necessary and I was not sneaking them. We decided earlier that day that I was allowed them. John just wasn't in the flat when this was discussed.

And John? We're out of milk.

Sherlock Watson-Holmes.

**Ta Da! All done. Finito, le end, Goodbye, Hasta La Vista. This was my very first fic, and I hoped you liked it. I have another one of the way very soon, I started writing it around Christmas and hope to have the first chapters uploaded in a few days. Thanks if you've been with me since the start!**

**Keep reviewing!**

**Violinhugger xx**


End file.
